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I woke up in a shallow ditch along the I-680, hair gritty with mud and limbs aching. The water in California has a way of going bad as soon as it meets the sun-baked dirt, and the resulting clay was gluing my arms and legs to the bottom of the rancid puddle. I coughed, tasting blood.
That's an important detail, chickadees. The blood wasn't my own.
The passing headlights of off-ramp traffic looked like wide swaths of fabric fluttering through the fog - gold smears and the red, bright winks of brake lights that followed. I remember this moment the most - when nothing in the world looked like it should have, when the spikes of bluegrass cut dark and sharp through my view of the roadside as I struggled up, rolling free of the mud to take my first hard breath in. It was then, looking up through the haze of fog into the wide black sky, that the only thing I could see and recognize clearly enough was the quarter-moon hanging low and yellow over Concord.
YOU ARE READING
Concord Moon
VampireSit thy butts down, chickadees, and listen up. My name is Bernardo Ten-Trees of the Fox Nation (Meskwaki Tribe) out of Wisconsin. I lost someone recently, and I'm trying to find him. Now, I'd heard of the West coast, sure, of its dubious gay mecca...
