𐌕𐋅𐌄 Ꮤ𐌓𐌄𐌍𐌔 Ꝋ𐌅 𐌂𐌀𐌌𐌄𐌋'𐌔 𐌁𐌀𐌂𐌊

On the new year.

Here they come now, down from the top of the north hump of the twin hills that people in these parts call Camel’s Back. A hundred torches glowing, one after the other, centipede-like, trooping from somewhere beyond the ridge, just as they did last year on this day.

The chirp chirp of the crickets cease.

The boy is smoking, watching the procession, nodding. Last year he ran to get the others, but nobody believed him, and by the time they’d put on their shoes and coats to see the spectacle, the one he’d assured them was real, the parade had come and gone. They called him a liar.

He won’t make that mistake again; this year he’s going to watch them march by.

Down Camel’s Back they wind, a long spectral feather of black smoke extends the train.

The boy chuckles, then takes a drag off his cigarette. He looks around, smiling, but nobody is awake to convene with. Fuckin’ wild, he thinks. Goddamnit this is fuckin’ wild.

They’re getting closer now. He can see their stickish legs and puffed up bibs. Their wings remind him of his uncle Conrad’s cloak, the one he wears to work the tents. “Don’t forget your top hat!” the boy yells, then claps his hands together. Wild.

When they are on the road—his road, finally—the boy steps off the porch and saunters to the curb. He picks up a piece of garbage from the gutter and throws it away in the can his father has already put out, even though it’s Saturday and collection isn’t until Monday. The boy does this as a show of respect for the approaching cavalcade of feathered grandees.

The incense and torch-smoke reminds the boy of his grandpa’s hair tonic, eucalyptus, only burnt; chard-licorice; molten Black Jack; cinder-anise.

And now they’re here. The first few in the line turn their beaks in his direction, their black eyes reflecting the torchlight. A ripe flea bobs in and out from the white bib of the lead wren. The boy is smiling so wide his face hurts.

But then he sees a woman, pale as the moon, restrained with varying colors and sizes of string, yarn, twine, and thread, face-up on a wooden plank—a platter of hair and flesh, fruit and youth. She doesn’t say anything to the boy as they carry her past, just stares at him with wide, goner-eyes. Wild.

The boy steps forward, but three of them hop at him, wings flapping, brandishing snapping beaks and fragrant torches. He steps back to the curb, raises two fingers; Peace.

They skip back to the glowing centipede, and after a few minutes, each flame is swallowed by the nearby forest.

The birds are gone; the chirp chirp of the crickets return.

The sun comes up an hour later; the boy is still watching the trees when they explode from the crown, swarming the new day with a despotic enthusiasm.

It is the new year.

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This little number was inspired by a holiday card I received from one of my favorite horror authors,

EJ Trask

. As soon as I opened the envelope and saw the birds with their torches, I thought, Ah, they are performing some sort of ritual…but where is their sacrifice? Well, that’s not entirely true; my first thought was, How are they holding torches if they don’t have hands? But I didn’t let that stop me from writing their story.

“If you're wondering how he eats and breathes they carry torches
And other science facts (la la la)
Then repeat to yourself, ‘It's just a show story
I should really just relax’”

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