To Cono’s mind the three assailants were all three nearly motionless even as they skittered and dodged, firing, maneuvering for a kill. Cono felt exhilaration—the ecstatic awareness that his strange brain and body had ordained him for just such moments, by allowing him to enter a space outside of time.
In my country, when we think about the future, we shake.
If it’s not one god it’s another. Allah or oil. Jesus or Jewels. Lenin or lust.
I believe in the goddess of mystery. And she’s always pregnant!
Cono knew that all three of his tormentors would know the anthem by heart from their childhood years. They had sung it daily to belong to the elite of their country, wearing around their necks the red ties of the Communist Party Youth Brigade, which had formed their beings and all that they would be...