No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Since 2015.
Xiao Fan looked up as the words were severed in the air. The scythe was no longer in his hand. Instead it was arcing downwards automatically, except not automatically, because it had been taken deftly from his grip by his elderly father who now slashed at their assailant in blind fury.
Kurt moved on his belly beneath the briars that formed a rudimentary roof for the hollowed out basin of earth the two men had called home for two nights now, slithering over the lip of the hollow and following the pull of gravity through the dark to where he knew Leo would be. The movement was that of a snake’s, but Kurt knew that he could not be a snake because a snake would have been long gone by now. He thought about what other animals he could be; a loyal mastiff at best, a fuck-witted donkey at worst.