We weren’t supposed to ride our bikes out to the reservoir. Certainly, we weren’t supposed to play on its rocky shore, but it was 1977 or 78 and we were innocent – the world was innocent – or at least, it seemed that way. And so we rode our bikes along the frontage rode of […]
He’d known… he’d seen… the stains on her hands when the gloves came off provided all the information he’d needed. She’d barely had time to kiss his screaming mouth into silence before the portal had been opened, and he’d been pushed inside.
Taking her seat, she watched as grandma did the same. She kept watching as the old woman used the squeeze-bottle of honey to draw a line around the inside of one of the orange slices, along the white pith beneath the rind. Then she pushed the cardboard tube from the paper towels into the honey.
American Gods by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.