Bound Unto Root: The Golden Pith

By Dominic Francisco

An abstract horror-fantasy anthology. Trek through the mire of troubled mind. Descend creaking floors of delusion in Bludgeon. Wear Sufferer's Skin. Find yourself atop The Canopy. Is this a coming of age tale or the weavings of a sinister hand?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roots of Obsidian
• Release date: Feb 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088233504

Book preview

I

Bludgeon

The Laws of Man

I’m living next to myself. My stomach is gone. I cannot be whole until I tell you this.

Please, let me confess. Let me exhale.

I’ve done something irreversible.

I’m in the car, coming home from I don’t even remember what. Nothing precedes this. This is where life starts. Everything that transpired prior to this moment is a paltry vignette of the crossroads of my existence. Fleeting postcards that depict landscapes I could have called home instead of this wretched avenue. What appendage wouldn’t I offer to rewrite my epitaph?

Instead, I sit in my car at San Pablo and Washington. Its vinyl dashboard glimmers in laminate splendor. Mists of stale coffee hover languorously. A milky plain tee, identical to his multipack brethren, clothes my gaunt frame. He isn’t silk, but he is a noble steward. A more lavish comfort is the titillation of cigarette smoke drifting from felt flooring. I don’t usually indulge in such luxuries in this cabin but these fragrant markers of exception remain. A jaded necklace hangs from the rear-view mirror. It swings with the accents of the road. A dancing remnant of heartbreak.

Emerald traffic lights validate my pace. A man approaching retirement canters past the lip of the curb. His curb, the one he should be perched on. One could be kind and assume this to be an oversight, but any notion of innocence is deflowered by what he does next.

The wrinkled toddler makes eye contact.

I’m looking straight at him, he’s grinning at me. He’s forgotten his place. Genteel levee gives way, primordia floods my lids. I’m being challenged. This paleolith is really doing this: climbing the rubble pile higher than his forefathers.

How the arrogant evolve.

Below raised brow his expression goads:

You must stop and ignore common sense for me. I am exercising my birthright to cross. Cosmic maths assure this. You must oblige. They say so, I say so, and we own you. You are our plaything and will abide by our itinerary. Your desires do not matter. Obey, doggy. Stop the car.

Tricks of hypnosis will not persuade my scalding sanctity. I am no wandering stooge. I know what is right and what is delusion. I will not give credence to his deception.

I know exactly who he is. This man serves the growing cult of Me-First. He is one of the emerging vandals of compassion, a scourge of hooligans who deface the gravestones of the generous. Their plague repaves streets and sidewalks alike with mindless ego. Those who howl cruelties over the voiceless, who froth and chew loudly, who step in front of my vehicle. These acolytes breed societal cysts. First, they appear as a blemish shrouded in insignificance, but neglect allows them to fester. This boil will erupt if nothing is done. A spattering of inhumanity looms inside its walls. Surgery is required.

I am speeding towards another moment, another crossroad. A definable path to a different life. But the fork ahead of me presents a second lane: the expressway of forgiveness.

I want to cherish commonality. To rest in a teacup with him, lapping correctness into each other’s mouths. I’ll reach down with him to a merciful drawer and pull out the proper cutlery for our picnic of misconception. There