Rev Carter LeBlanc

Last time we talked, there were rumors of dozens of little ziploc baggies each one contaning a single dessicated brown bat, sitting shelfwards with candied orange peel and gumdrops. Jars full of secret things hand wrapped in squares of butchers paper, mystery ideas tattooed on goatskin/parchment with invisible ink, baked into meat pies, fortunes of flesh *gone* cuniform scratches and morsels of richness. Rose hips and fennel flavour our exposed patches of skin, painted on in delicate strokes with brushes of bamboo and baby hair. A tast of silver behind the teeth. All that was left, or is left, or will be left is/are/was/were the chunks. Pieces...fragments that tell short stories, but not whole stories, and the reasons are unfathomable...what does the paint in the bucket tell us about the body in the coffin? A fuzed lump of coal half gone diamantine, double shot of buck with a spot marked "wanted"... Everything that was necessary was completed in a flurry of snow or activity.