We are the lickspittles,
we are the cracked bone.
We are the dust between the dark and dawn.
In illuminated chambers we split our bread,
we feast on flesh whose
feast was fleshed
upon the dusky moors.
Those of heathen moult,
split in tooth and wolves' grin.
With ink and dry sand we season
set to taste our course.
We are the winnowed field.
We are the crumbled stone
set against bone. The mange-fleecers.
Those who insure the door is left ajar.
The ragged edge.
She was lamed on our borders, felled and easy to task.
Our whispers shuttered her eyes.
Our sighs cobwebbed her ears.
Our murmurs muffled her mouth.
We are the frayed thread.
The argosy of moths.
The debted renderers.
We are the bitten cry, the grave-rubbings.
We are the council under clouded night,
and the pages crumbled clean.
The slackened mouth, held low
in hungry anticipation.
Jacob Garbe is burgeoning. His work is currently shortlisted for the Aeon Award, but what has him up at strange hours lately is Pandemonia, his interactive narrative environment which — like the humble thornapple — will hopefully prove invasive, pernicious, and capable of inducing violent flights of fancy when ingested in sagacious quantities. Until then, you can nibble on some interactive pieces, or a bevy of piquant microfiction.
When asked to name his favourite fruit, he replied, "I think conceptually the pomegranate is my favorite fruit, as it is composed of many chambers."
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