Black Wings of Cthulhu 3 by S. T. Joshi

Author:S. T. Joshi [Joshi, S. T.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: 0857687824
Publisher: Titan
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Down Black Staircases

JOSEPH S. PULVER, SR.

Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. is the author of the novel The Orphan Palace (Chomu Press, 2011) and three collections from Hippocampus Press, Blood Will Have Its Season (2009), SIN & ashes (2010), and Portraits of Ruin (2012). His work has appeared in such venues as Phantasmagorium, Ellen Datlow’s Best Horror of the Year, and The Book of Cthulhu.

SHADOWS. SAMENESS WITH NO SOON

and silence

Sky without time…

Hand, trembling, hoping to be free of this gravity of impossible, wishing for magic carpet or a fifth of blurred and near numb.

Outside the window, Kingsport.

They say this is America. New England. They swear it’s true. Hell, they’ll show you the map. Don’t you believe it. People lie. Governments lie. The world that bent your mind with its sharp moments last week, that’s a lie.

It’s all a lie.

Bit into my first one, swallowed it whole. Should have spit it out. Should have run.

I’m not supposed to be here. I had a flag. Had things. Places. I had a future, my friends and parents thought it was gold-plated and never worried or raised any concerns. And I didn’t mess up. Walked straight. Followed the rules. All of them. I didn’t even own a pair of jeans. See? I was good. Another genial VP—part paid planner, part paid worrier, sprinkle in a little bastard if and when needed—overseeing the right accounts, a few of which required more bastard, rising at the right pace. Work late, smile when you shake hands. Nice suits. Good restaurants. Drinks with significant people. Normal.

I was on my way to Boston. On my way to see her. Clea. Little white dress and that ass. You only saw women like that on TV, or in Hollywood, in the movies. Never had a woman like that say those things to me. Never had a woman dressed like that, built like that, offer me everything. Said she was all mine, said it while her breasts were pressed against my arm. Never knew they could be that soft. Never been that close. Never. Never imagined things like really happening. Not in my world.

Going?

I sure was. Hell and a hundred sulfur-drenched demons couldn’t stop me, and jacked-up on pure lust I didn’t stop to consider anything but the “100%-pure, honeysweet pussy” the avalanche of my go-ahead loaded on the back of my eyelids.

Friday. Ready to permit delirium into my world, burning with insistent. Checked my reservation with the hotel in Boston. Tried to leave the office early. Something bad put a stop to it. Three hours to remove the glitch from the deal.

Opened the door on night.

All the bragging they do about a Beamer’s relish, that’s true. I pushed my impatience into en route.

A weekend in Boston. Nights in her bed, or in my hotel room, or on the floor, who knew what and where and how many times, or in how many different ways? Ways like in those movies. Grape or whatever she wanted to drink. Painted toes. Dancing, vibrating. A real woman with her fingers playing with my tie.

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