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Bosch Bled By the Soul-Shifting Dead
Bosch arrived in the town of my birth in a dream, right there on Second and Yesler, and marveled, I guess is the word, at the sheer '40s bustle of crowds as they danced through the bebop that wafted from overhead windows.
He lounged near a theater marquee, such as one you might see in postwar Times Square, content for the moment to take in the sights, the to-ing and fro-ing of prosperous people, the hum in the air--he could actually see this, and taste it as well--along with the smiles he'd seen all too rarely in dreams and his long strings of lifetimes.
Women paraded in flowered spring hats and thin dresses shimmering on skin as silk does, and he breathed their perfume while he kept his eye out for the soul-shifting siren who'd bled him stark white in the dream that had preceded this one.
The girl with the razor, punked out and tattooed with a wink and a promise, the one that he'd loved with all his heart's blood, coming to wrestle him into the thickets again...
No sooner the thought than she stood by his side, her arm threading his, her hip pressing; she kissed him and smiled, her slender hardness, her raven-black plumage, those red laquered nails a young man's delight--and Bosch was young one more time in this dream...
They started on up toward the Morrison Hotel, where homeless and crazies stack up like cordwood in winter, and she brought him into the lobby, winked at the cobwebbed clerk at the desk, and took him upstairs and into a room, and stripped him and played him, and then as her eyes turned from silver to black she called out softly in some other language to someone or something, then left him--and now a hand gripped him, and then three or four, and then those hands took him, and, as they skinned him, he felt the laughter of soul-shifting women, late-night morgue laughter born of dead screams, and he knew the murder that burned in their eyes...
Comment
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Comment by Angela on October 10, 2012 at 7:05pm -
Dark magic, my friend.
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Comment by Jamie Hogan on October 9, 2012 at 10:40am -
When I read "where homeless and crazies stack up like cordwood in winter," my jaw dropped. Not hyperbole.
© 2013 Created by Robert McEvily.
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