They roam this sogged landscape through heavy mist burdened with guns and swords and rods, many of them pushing or pulling carts laden with their lives or whatever remains. Some of them ride the backs of bloated horses, the eyes of both man and beast dulled by fatigue and sickness. You hear them before you see them rise up out of the fog like wraiths, clothes wasted and faces caked in mud. And maybe they are wraiths up from some unspeakable depth or maybe you’re the ghost they stare at walking slowly past, gun drawn. Women with long hair carrying alien babies hatched in some far off land and these people have seen hell, their eyes betray giant serpents and beheadings, rivers of blood. You feel guilty and damned just looking at them. A scream from far off and you can’t discern its direction nor its origin. The fog is a spider web on your skin, the ground warm vomit. Gray world without end.
Published by TJ McAvoy
I am a thinker by trade and an artist by definition. Primary influences include, in no particular order, Chandler, Voltaire, Saramago, Borges, John Coltrane, Nietzsche, Ricardo Piglia, Emerson, George V. Higgins, Manuel Puig, D.F. Wallace, Cortázar, Denis Johnson, Michelangelo, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Juan José Saer, Keith Jarrett, J-Dilla, Roberto Bolaño, and Don DeLillo. View all posts by TJ McAvoy