Death of a Trophy Hunter
Over the kill the larvae loom she posted on Instagram before the blood congealed, paid in dollars for the fun. Trophy hunter with a smile, herself hunted down on the net they published her name, address. Not overheated reaction, not revenge not justice even, the vigilantes said, only the necessary removal of a stain. By the noble king’s massive head she makes the thumbs-up sign, ajar the jaw in spasm, from within came once the ancient roar, final tearing of a tree’s roots, blow of power you felt quiver through the enclosure’s rock wall. She walks away from the corpse, prepares to update her webpage. They wait, her followers, the last men, itching to share conspiratorially, as the beams of lighthouses sweep for faith in the infinite darkness.
The Bones of Faith
Ice wall at the end of the world. Trapped there are the explorers, with blunted bow, tethered like dogs to the confused mission of the floes. Their convictions placed in shrouds slip into the dark waters of the sound. On deck they line up in their furs before the ice cliff arisen from nowhere with confidence, the unexplained that overhung the strongest human child. Memories are all the pioneers have, flapping weakly in cages on the deck. The gold in the chest shines uselessly, how easily insanity found their location. Each held a flame to the blue grey whiteness but what came back was a darkness, then distance worked its knife into them. The sun rose and possibility of survival shared amongst them its gaudy promises. In frost-caked corners and by waning stoves they lay stacked like wood piles in snow. Some prayed, called for Lord Jesus Christ, but on the last day there was only the ice. Then silence slipped on board, a grey fox, to snatch the last reserves of words.