Stolen Tongues

by Felix Blackwell

“Not even Satan can protect me from your tacos,”

Faye rolled toward me so that our noses touched. Her eyes were open and rolled far back in her head. She smiled and ran a fingernail across my cheek, pretending to carve ribbons of flesh. She reminded me of a butcher delicately assessing a filet. “They’re gonna kill you,” she whispered – then licked my face.

“My people gave him the name At’an-A’anotogkua,” he said quietly. “The term refers to water, and how it is formless until it fills a vessel.

If the Impostor wanted to come after us here, he’d have to learn how to imitate a lawn gnome.

I suppose that if you speak long enough into the void, someone is bound to start listening.