Why Pulled Bandages Will Be Plucked from the Waiting Hall - by Shane Jesse Christmass. FULL STORY HERE
What remains of fear? Mosquito bites on Samantha’s skin, she was marking herself into the hike, the woods, all remorse now in the sun setting, why did she come on this trek? No one wants to help her. Her pack is heavy, bursting, bulged. Mosquitoes hold on her sweat, then flee from her skin. The path is in the distance. The house beyond it. She regrets tiny mistakes, lots of bread falls from her memory of what breakfast was this morning. Further, down in the ravine, she hears a faint whine, her body raw today. Several deep breaths. Where do the animals jump? Behind the tree. Samantha encounters milky fungus, nature’s whitlow, at least one syrup, all white, grey down to its circle base. Samantha walks around the back of the factory, pushing on stilts, walking on feet poles. Metal scraps, filing shavings on the floor, an inside substance injected into the bottom of Samantha’s swollen legs. I turn up on washing day, months after she’s left the forest, left walking around the back of this factory. Vulpine body, enriched in tourbillions and farfetched star systems. She’s acting in the back garden, beating herself up, willing her body to go down, hanging like threads, the superior of clean hands, rushing toward the alcove, watching her pus-fingers, sighed suddenly from willing, sloping mountains, already returning today older.
