Already the Kid can see

barren indigo waves drift

into the blanket of night

with vengeance and mutual

tolerance worn thin, like

how he misses her

thin purple dress, and

she is his only concern,

she is his only thought,

her gentle curves seen

in the sand dunes as he

stares into the Egyptian blue

night, his fire out, shivering—

but unlike his spirit, he

glares patiently, expecting

white roses to fall from the

heavens, kissing his face

cold with tears of God as

if apologizing for the

thirst that stole her life and

now sits beside him, potion

clutching his spine tight to

manipulate its marionette like a

pup, leading his thoughts on a leash,

a singular meridian of murder

wide around the earth, letting the

hellhounds out and on the loose,

like the wild dogs roaming the dunes

running with sand, an opaque wind

along her legs and hips, and

they begin to rip his flesh

tear and snap his tendons,

disembowel her painful past that

is within him as he bleeds in a

savage skeletal wasteland long

dead, not a thing living but the

Devil itself, a beast of a

temptation, who asks where his

savior is in his time of need,

but he insists it is nature

at its best, and that God has

always been here, the true

design, the War that He is.

Paul Burnell is a Junior Creative Writing major with a minor in Film Studies. This is his first publication, which he hopes to be followed by many more. He lives in Maine and enjoys science fiction and horror stories in multiple mediums, including film, prose, and video games.