It was said that the gore had flooded the hall of
the monastery in which the monks struggled to
hold shut their wounds opened by foot soldiers
of pious Lord Ruprecht. The duke smiled. Little
would please me so much as to offer you this man whom
you seek, he said. Already, I think of you as one might
a son, and I would watch proudly as you spilled his guts
and the stench of prey rose into the air and embraced us.
On a golden charger between Sous-Terrain and
the duke, the crowned rack of lamb lay, ruined,
in a pool of fat and juices. The mute stood with
his back to the feast, at the black windows, and
his mask appeared to float, bodiless, outside, in
the frozen night, where the cold, mirrored fires
burned. Sous-Terrain could almost smell blood
as the clouds parted and for an instant exposed
a silvered theater of dead battlements and crags
and, beyond the last of the high peaks, nothing.
Haishutsuryou (Output)
by Gregory Kimbrell
He gave me the lower half of a man’s arm once, says Neurin. I
had no idea what
I was supposed to do with it. But I was starving, so I chewed off
the flesh—at least
I could eat it. It turned out the bones of the wrist were capped with
salable gold. He
licks the back of his right hand, as though some metallic
savor lingered
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