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Coming to Grips with the Mountains and Valleys of This World

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Gift Gugu Mona

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“I lay, rapt and naked, on Irwin's rough blanket, waiting for the miraculous change to make itself felt. But all I felt was a sharp, startlingly bad pain. […] Then the stories of blood-stained bridal sheets and capsules of red ink bestowed on already deflowered brides floated back to me. I wondered how much I would bleed, and lay down, nursing the towel. It occurred to me that the blood was my answer. I couldn't possibly be a virgin any more. I smiled into the dark. I felt part of a great tradition.”

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“Everything was spinning but when I closed my eyes the room was motionless and dark. And then the dreams came. Birds were falling from the sky. Sparrows. Millions and millions of sparrows. They were falling like rain and they were hitting me as they fell and I had their blood all over me and I couldn't find a place to protect myself. Their beaks were breaking my skin like arrows.”

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“The Blood Supper by Stewart Stafford Nightcrawler leaves their dirt bed, Seeking an essential blood supper, Cloaked in regal Stygian armour, Bar one chink in the left chest area. All the experience of centuries used, Lives lived long before their victims, Stalking stacked in a predator's favour, Shock overwhelms when blindsided. The infected victim then becomes one, With their undead attacker, connected, Sharing their contagion and obsessions, In a parasitic void betwixt life and death. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

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“I suck the blood out of Ben's towel for what feels like hours. I lie down on the floor, the towel hanging from my mouth and spread out across my chest. I'm in bliss. I can't really describe how it feels to have another person's blood in your veins, feeding to your heart, even just a little bit: a human's blood, not a pig's, two legs, upright and elegant, hints of something---of foods and memories and experiences, of birth, of being ill and getting better, of love and grief and fear---in its flavor. I feel huge; I feel like, if I were to stand up and run toward my studio wall, I'd just break through it. Like I could trample on cars and people outside, whole families under one foot, roaring until shop windows shatter. The sun would be drawn to me and would be consumed by my hair, which would grow and grow and then spread across the sky and turn day into night. The ground would quake around me; little moles that had been sleeping would emerge from their holes, and rabbits from their burrows, and I'd pluck them out of the ground like bean shoots and swallow them whole.”

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“After the dusk of the passage, the evening sunshine that was pouring into the room made my eyes blink. I took a step or two across the floor and then stopped dead. For a moment I could hardly take in the meaning of the scene before me. Colonel Protheroe was lying sprawled across my writing table in a horrible unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping on to the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip. I pulled myself together and went across to him. His skin was cold to the touch. The hand that I raised fell back lifeless. The man was dead — shot through the head.”

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