The Third

Posted by Paul Ricciardi (Rock Hill, United States) on 18 January 2007 in People & Portrait and Portfolio.

If you're just now tuning in, this is part of a continuing series, a short story told by prose, poetry, and photos. Go back to the 16th to catch the start. Thanks.

The room swallows you despite its 6x8 size. You slip down the tembling, organic hallways of his heart. Poetry and sex hang in the air, entwined with your locks. The Pale Man pushes against himself, pushes his mind against his skull, and cracks it. You can hear the bone shattering from the bed. His brain spills out of his head to splatter against the floor with a wet fish pudding sound.

It does not disturb you, you know he has no use for a brain, his mind provides enough for his body. And yours. You simply return to sewing your spider web, he tore a bit last night.

The arms sprout from the sockets. The Third ritual has begun. You fret.

There are no poems tonight. Simply the silence of the end.
You try to hear but your ears are filled with ringing. You wonder what he is going through. He wonders the same.

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