Grace Krilanovich - The Orange Eats Creeps

She rooted around in the pile of clothes in the corner for a little while longer, but she was so tired. Exhausted, she collapsed into a pile of cloth with ribs sticking out, pulsing slightly with small private breaths.

I felt around in the dark and my hands fell on a small beating body rising and falling like a seashell full of meat.

Leaning over her, House Mom’s nose seemed fashioned out of white polished bone and stood out illuminated against the crust covering her face. I dug around where she lay, trying to get some footing on the loose dirt around her enclosure. I picked her up and carried her out of that place, gathering her up and hoisting the clacking mass up onto my back I walked out of that little shed. The hot wind dried up what few drops fell on the footpath practically as fast as they fell.

The proximity to the dead girl had really depleted us both — only my marks were on the inside. It appeared as if her mind was still intact even though I wore her body like a bloody backpack. We talked about all kinds of things… walking… walking… her black holes burning into my back. “Your eyes, they look at me so strangely — ”She had wounds and bits of odd flesh that I pinched together closed so I could pick her up and take her out of this mess. It worked so-so for now.

Walking…

Walking…

A “town” —

A small clutch of gas stations, marts, and diners hung in an orange fog that pulsed on the horizon. It gave people somewhere to go for basic life services. Surrounding it was a black that seemed equally empty, even as it spilled into the night sky.

Lump of fat, sparkling with the shock of crackling synapses. Smiling all the time. She was just crumbs when I found her: a speaking, breathing monster. She felt like nothing, pieces of her flesh hanging off here and there as she wiggled around my shoulders. “I’m taking you away from this place” — I walked across the night, into the next town, and it became more difficult to make steps forward as the grade rose and fell unpredictably. She complained, our conversation veering between consolation and admonishment and back again, her broken body draped like a skinned rug on my back while she appeared to grow heavier with each hour. I suspected her body was filling with the rain that grew heavier as we entered the woods on the edge of town.

I slept under a bush next to a stream. Several days later arriving at the Greyhound station in Eugene, I sat her in a pile on a bench while I loaded what little else I had with me onto the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus lurched forward. Frantic, I pleaded with the bus driver to stop so I could get her but he didn’t hear or didn’t care and wouldn’t stop the bus so I could get off. We drove on. I couldn’t get off the bus or do anything about it. She stayed out there waiting for me.

The writing of this novel was greatly assisted by the generous support of The MacDowell Colony.

Special thanks to Bryan Charles, Anthony Miller, Sam Stern, José Alvergue, Mat Brinkman, Nickole A. Pepera, Bruce Bauman, and most of all Steve.