15 Dark Hooks for Jeremy Hart Illos
You have stopped seeing them around, and when you knock on their door it creaks open – unlocked.
A cloud of stench envelops you – like moldy bread and dead dogs, you choke and turn, hand over your mouth.
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Recently a spate of crime has hit all sides of the city – though not of the usual kind.
Instead of taking coin, they have been taking fingers.
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I don’t know what it is.
It is growing and stumbling through the room, dripping and knocking chairs about.
It moans and turns, and behind me the barkeep stands stock still, light from behind us pouring in the parlor.
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I know how much of my body is tendons – Silverskin – Gristle – Fat.
I have seen my muscles, my organs, my bones.
I keep finding me – And eating me.
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Jet black honey sticks to my ribs, and beaks like needles pierce my arms – This grove is oddly peaceful.
Now I know why the birds are poached – And I cannot live without them.
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I turn the corner – breath held like the sound a book makes when closed quick – sharp as the silver light of the moon on a corpse.
I wish I didn’t have to cross the courtyard – I wish I hadn't seen that slip of dress around the corner, I wish I didn’t have to follow – But I have to know where she is headed this late.
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I woke up in the surf, clothes wet with seawater.
Crabs scuttle around me, and the sand is wet, my form impressed upon its’ surface.
I feel a pinch, and look down – a crab is grabbing my foot, and I see a new tattoo there – a simple symbol, but one I have never seen.
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With a slash their stomach opens, their flesh yellow and porous – no red and grey.
They continue forward, seemingly unharmed – determined and dangerous.
With a rattling sigh they grab someone, I cannot tell who – and the sounds kick off after that….
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You look at the cracked mirror, the street looks like the town was destroyed. Doors litter the cobble, carts overturned, forms of people lay like sleeping children. All is covered in a thin grey dust.
You hear a rumble and consider what to do – as wind picks up ash and bits of stone, pushing at you like a childhood bully.
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They fell in a well – everyone in town talks about it.
They speak of the well as if it is a problem, like there is more to this than a child choosing the wrong place to play.
They seem to have not gone and got the body, or even seen the child down at the bottom.
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It is green and patina covered – the details on this bronze box look old – there are thin lines and likenesses of men and women with spears, hunting for something that looks like small people.
You wedge a crowbar in the crack, and crunch away at the corrosion, this sea-borne box is soon to open.
There is a sound like tapping on kegs when you crack the box open – a sound like castanets.
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You peer through the crack in the wall – through moss and masonry – and see who you are after.
He is bend over, digging with his hands, slowly – as if they have time.
After a while they leave the garden, and walk back into the palace – you creep around to go see what they buried.
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Like a crow turned inside out – it hits like a club with nails.
It sounds like a chariot wheel on stone – it moves like a stone through molasses.
It smells of copper and heat, like a burning oxide, like a hot poker.
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The children all agree that the best path to get from market to road is through the cemetery.
It has gotten darker, and you walk your ass and cart through the space, dim shapes in stone dot the land.
As sudden as a cloud opening for rain – you see figures step from behind stones, you see people walking around all around.
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You try and fail.
You cannot piss, try as you might.
Everyone seems angry today – then someone falls over, their crotch begins to darken, and the panic begins.
No-one can piss, and no-one knows why.
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