Fantastic Metropolis

He was still just a little kid. Even with Decker’s liver in his mouth.

Frankie hit the edge of the cornfield and pounded on, stalks whipping his face. He heard sobbing and when he had to gasp for air he knew it was his own. He ran and ran until the scraping rasp of his breath burned his lungs and ripped black splotches in his eyes. The corn enfolded him like his mother’s loving arms, nothing around but corn, a foot higher than his head.

He could see nothing but corn, and nothing but corn could see him.

He threw himself down, gasping for air, watering the corn with his tears. Oh thank God I made it. I made it. Thank you God. Thank you, Jesus, I’ll go straight, I swear, I’ll go back to church. I’ll never hurt anybody again as long as I live. Thank you, God.

Then he felt hot breath that reeked of copper on his neck and a childish voice whispered in his ear, “I know something scarier than you.”

This time it was the skitter of gravel under bicycle wheels, long after dark.

This time.

Sometimes it’s tears in a shopping mall. Sometimes it’s solemn watching while others play. Sometimes it’s calling for a runaway puppy.

Sometimes.

Not often enough.