20 degrees north, 62 west. The outer rise of the Puerto Rico Trench, a hundred miles north of Anguilla. New Moon, 1% visible. Kraken darkness, lit only by octopus phosphorescence and the bright detonations of ejaculating eels. They’ve been travelling in tandem for five days now, through frittering flames of fertilised ova and the disarticulate, […]
The moose haunts my dreams, his palmate rack begging me for alms, or succour, or release. Now he stands at the end of my bed in the dark, chewing cud. I must scare him to save him as the men here kill rogue moose, their rifles cocked, their wool caps low on their heads. […]
There is a place where the river meets the land; a kink in the direction of the water, so that the usually tranquil current froths to a restless swirl, and things wash up onto the grass like bad food spat out. For the past two weeks we have been pulling bodies from that place […]
Read More… from What We Find in the Guts of the Bodies that the River Gives UsPhilip Webb Gregg