j. l. navarro

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"Tree at Julian, Ca." by William Mortenson

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Behind the house, covered with a camouflage tarp, I have the body of Earl Durmoth rotting under a tree.  He is (or was) a highly acclaimed poet before I did away with him.  I have placed his head in a metal bucket out back near the water hose on the other side of the screened porch, detached from the rest of his carcass.  By now, it's fully covered with yellow-white maggots writhing like animated rice, crawling over it as if it were a giant gumball roofed with hair. It's being constantly surveyed by a group of plump, buzzing flies that are well gorged from feasting on the decayed flesh.  When the wind blows in my direction, a strong pungent stench of fetid putrefaction is carried on the balmy air. 

 

Continues…

 

This story is included in The Blood Cake Vendor and Other Stories.

 

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