(A story in honor of Halloween. As the days of October shorten, a young man descends with the sunset shadows down seven cellar stairs.)
Paulie's long shadow stretched toward the cottage. Abandoned windows tilted in frames, and dust clouded the glass like milk.
The day was fading. On the ground, Paulie's stilt legs merged with the shadow of the hickory tree behind him.
He checked his watch.
He stepped forward toward the tired yellow wall as the 59 popped like little hungry mouths to 00. He opened the storm cellar doors. Rust flaked from salty smelling metal.
The dying sun hung on the last splinters of the first stair, then slid. The shadow of the hickory tree darkened it.
Tingling, he stepped down. Cool mustiness billowed up from the dark. He breathed, and it made his arms shiver.
Skies and lands and plains of humungousness walking with the light and Conan with his sword whips and whistles on science book covers stab stab stabs and the blood laughing in rivers tap fingers because I'm bored and no I don't know the answer you fuck my sword swish and spills intestines God warrior God warrior oh shut up I'm trying read when my face is red because I throw like a fag hiding in back I'll cut my hair when I use pieces of your bleached skull my eyes are just tired only tired and red Mrs. oh my Mrs.
The waterfall darkness from the hickory tree flowed onto the second stair, and Paulie's prism thoughts dimmed. His burned-in shoulders slumped on the cottage clapboards.
Before he lifted his old mountain bike from the weeds, he banged closed the storm doors.
He pedaled away on sagging tires. Before coming tomorrow, he would pump them nice and hard.