Lost Souls

by Poppy Z. Brite

The adults buy spangled cat’s-eye masks for masquerades, and other women’s husbands pull other men’s wives to them under cover of Spanish moss and anonymity, hot silk and desperate searching tongues and the wet ground and the ghostly white scent of magnolias opening in the night, and the colored paper lanterns on the veranda in the distance.

The sky is purple, the flare of a match behind a cupped hand is gold; the liquor is green, bright green, made from a thousand herbs, made from altars. Those who know enough to drink Chartreuse at Mardi Gras are lucky, because the distilled essence of the town burns in their bellies. Chartreuse glows in the dark, and if you drink enough of it, your eyes will turn bright green.

The wind blew the French Quarter in behind her, the night air rippling warm down Chartres Street as it slipped away toward the river, smelling of spice and fried oysters and whiskey and the dust of ancient bones stolen and violated.

she had pretty ways and a sweet shy smile, and she was a tiny brightness in every ashen empty night.

“Oh, silver southern moon … tell me your sweet lies, then let me drown deep in your eyes.…”