Nathan Turner, aged thirty, was a modest earner, if nothing other. Son of no

father and a flighty mother, and raised in most part by troubled brothers, he was never

one to put his trust in those upon whom the dust of age had scarcely settled. For a time,

he had meddled, even peddled, looking for the light in his own eyes. But never enough was

it, just as well, in his own mind, for the brand of fire which he desired was the sort a

man might chase until he dies, and even at the gates of Hell, never find.

But one cool evening in July, he chanced to meet - just walking by - a woman with

an empty stroller. "Empty stroller?" he asked at once, fearing himself a trifling dunce,

and followed quickly with, "Expecting children?"

In that moment, he wished she'd killed him.

"No," she said, smiling instead, "but I do so love collecting."

Then the dots Nathan Turner began connecting.

"Collecting? Whatever for? Though, your hobby I shan't and can't condemn, I'm more

used to the habits of my fellow men."

"Why, silly," she intoned, as the hum of life around her droned, "One day, I hope to fill them."

It was something in that thing she said. Something stirring and something

blurring emotions he'd long thought dead; Rosanna, that lovely woman, he did wed. And only

in their wedding bed, when their years together numbered seven, did he finally taste sweet

manna, rained down from the heavens. A simple test, one blue sign, was enough to utterly

realign a life started far too late. And on that date, after a lifetime's wait, he felt

twice the man, in the mirror, he was seeing.

For Elizabeth, his darling daughter, was well on her way to being.

I can feel it snapping ribs like moist twigs,
Angry like the pulsing of a bursting boil
Pounding,
Throbbing,
Birthed to roil against the translucent skin which holds it in,
Ready to tear and ready to give;
Gasping for air, longing to live.
Its ink stains my bowels black,
The caustic sting crisping the
Soul until the lingering cinders
Burn bright as coals and the breath sloughs away
From screams as frail as lisping coughs.
Claws roped with dancing veins
Strum soft flesh like guitar strings, and
Grinning teeth press themselves to trembling innards,
Squeezing beating flesh like
Hands made for holding
Laughing,
Hissing,
Like a whore's moaning.
So drink deep, little bastard, of the blood you’ve made me spill
And drink again on all my tomorrows
Until you’ve had your fill.