Henry Pike, Know-it-all
Somewhere deep behind her eyes lay the seed of miracle.
I knew it the moment she said she saw Huxley burst into flames. That was two whole weeks before he rammed his Pinto up under a lumber truck and set his ashes floating, red and greasy, toward the radio tower lights.
I know that’s why she took a straightened coat hanger to ‘em, trying to poke little holes in ‘em so they don’t work any more, but I know you can’t bleed out miracles. They’s trapped in the meat, all firm and determined. I know she’s seen me coming to take those eyes from her and maybe she’s seen me eating ‘em and perhaps she’s seen all the things that I’m going to see, but it ain’t gonna do her no good.
I’m sure she’s seen that. I knew it the moment she said she saw crows on my shoulders and that they coveted her sacrificial eyes.
Her momma was a tight jeans gal with her hair puffed up and her ass poked out and I was the orphan of a preacher man and a momma that had gone arcane. Daddy went first, green and knotted, and momma followed two weeks later when the serpents found her wanting. This put the shadows in my eyes and drew her to me like wheat to the scythe.
We holed up at Lake Blackshear just before winter set, back as far as we could get with four goats and a handful of chickens. I give her tea and a pinch of momma’s powder every evening and now that spring is threatening, she’s taken sick and I promise her it’ll be alright, that I’ll take care of her little girl.
Right before sunrise, I’m roused by screams coming from Little One’s room. I run in and she’s kneeling on the floor in front of me, head down and wailing, her fine golden hair slick with red. Her hands are stretched out before her and in the center of each blood puddled palm is the shriveled remains of her magic eyes. I knew she knew.
I take ‘em, still warm, and give ‘em a voracious chewin’. Gagging and shaking I head to the barn to slash a goat at the sunrise, in praise of this mighty gift, no sniveling coat hangers here, no sir, I’m about to see with the eyes of God.
At the door of the barn lay a queer sight. A goat, head twisted and eyeless. My stomach knots and I race the sun across the back yard to the porch. Half way, my knees tackle the dirt and I am seized by wracking spasms and visions. Visions!
The sun sets its glow about the world, a perfect halo, and I see it all. I see an angel sacrificing a goat and stuffing its eyes with ma’s poison powder. I see her offering this to God. I lay on my back, too weak to laugh, and watch the crows circle over head.
By Jason Herring. Herring lives in Asheville and writes it all down.
I knew it the moment she said she saw Huxley burst into flames. That was two whole weeks before he rammed his Pinto up under a lumber truck and set his ashes floating, red and greasy, toward the radio tower lights.
I know that’s why she took a straightened coat hanger to ‘em, trying to poke little holes in ‘em so they don’t work any more, but I know you can’t bleed out miracles. They’s trapped in the meat, all firm and determined. I know she’s seen me coming to take those eyes from her and maybe she’s seen me eating ‘em and perhaps she’s seen all the things that I’m going to see, but it ain’t gonna do her no good.
I’m sure she’s seen that. I knew it the moment she said she saw crows on my shoulders and that they coveted her sacrificial eyes.
Her momma was a tight jeans gal with her hair puffed up and her ass poked out and I was the orphan of a preacher man and a momma that had gone arcane. Daddy went first, green and knotted, and momma followed two weeks later when the serpents found her wanting. This put the shadows in my eyes and drew her to me like wheat to the scythe.
We holed up at Lake Blackshear just before winter set, back as far as we could get with four goats and a handful of chickens. I give her tea and a pinch of momma’s powder every evening and now that spring is threatening, she’s taken sick and I promise her it’ll be alright, that I’ll take care of her little girl.
Right before sunrise, I’m roused by screams coming from Little One’s room. I run in and she’s kneeling on the floor in front of me, head down and wailing, her fine golden hair slick with red. Her hands are stretched out before her and in the center of each blood puddled palm is the shriveled remains of her magic eyes. I knew she knew.
I take ‘em, still warm, and give ‘em a voracious chewin’. Gagging and shaking I head to the barn to slash a goat at the sunrise, in praise of this mighty gift, no sniveling coat hangers here, no sir, I’m about to see with the eyes of God.
At the door of the barn lay a queer sight. A goat, head twisted and eyeless. My stomach knots and I race the sun across the back yard to the porch. Half way, my knees tackle the dirt and I am seized by wracking spasms and visions. Visions!
The sun sets its glow about the world, a perfect halo, and I see it all. I see an angel sacrificing a goat and stuffing its eyes with ma’s poison powder. I see her offering this to God. I lay on my back, too weak to laugh, and watch the crows circle over head.
By Jason Herring. Herring lives in Asheville and writes it all down.
posted by ash | 5:48 AM
4 Comments:
"Henny Pike, Know It All."
this is probably my favorite thing that I've read on here yet.
cheers,
csg
Beautiful. Creepy. More.
that was downright thought provoking.
samkistler
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