Foy is the winner of Vol 3 – 6 and Vol 3 – 12, Vol 3 – 13 and Vol 3 – 22. She grew up in the blue heights and hollows of North Carolina, climbing waterfalls with her innumerable siblings, and feeding a demanding muse. Though she now lives in apple fields of Virginia, those crags still haunt her dreams.
Keeping her joyful are the million-mile-an-hour Heeler, and “the other George”–her partner in crime, love, food, and endurance races (sometimes he doesn’t understand her writings but he always tells her they’re the best). No published works–yet–but she puts her brain on Twitter @deborahthefoy.
***
Vol 3 – 22: We Rest on Thee
Gray breaches blue.
Then eclipses it.
Consumes it.
Fear takes over; the illusion of control lost. Chemicals push through turgid veins; oxygen floods the organism; rational thought gives way to reflex.
This is it. I’m gonna die.
Lone pines on smoke-colored mountains. Biscuits and bitter coffee. Momma stringing green beans.
We rest on Thee, our Shield and our Defender;
We go not forth alone against the foe.
Yellow, orange, black, heat swelling. Salt stings eye-flesh, mouth like cotton. Ground rising up with deadly force, eager to embrace that burning carcass.
Strong in Thy strength, safe in Thy keeping tender.
We rest on Thee, and in Thy name we go.
Angry words unrepented, lies too late to disentangle, a heart kept closed.
We go in faith, our own great weakness feeling,
And needing more each day Thy grace to know.
Teeth set to teeth. The limbic system signals the bladder to void, warmth spreads between clenched legs.
“We’ve all committed crimes, Son.” Preacher’s red hand strikes his back in love. “Let Jesus be your lawyer!”
Christ! Help me.
Impact. Steel crushing inward, groaning. Head whipped forward, brain numb.
Sounds without edges.
Singing.
Yet from our hearts a song of triumph pealing;
We rest on Thee, and in Thy Name we go.
***
Vol 3-13: Dead Fruit
<<Story removed at author’s request>>
***
Vol 3 – 12: Remorse
<<Story removed at author’s request>>
***
Vol 3 – 6: The Dead Belong to the Vulture
I know a hunger that compels self-preservation to bend before it. You think it a lie, seeing me this way, Lord of the Spoils.
That gnawing will push you to chase the warm winds, letting them sustain you as shadows stretch, until below, spirit separates from carrion. Then the descent begins, slow, patient, allowing the sun to soften flesh, and the insects to perform their first rite of oviposition.
Other beasts, ambling along the road, will take interest, and try to steal away your prize by brute persuasion but that emptiness shackles you to the corpse, bestowing unnatural boldness.
So was my life before this place.
How could I not stay? When first I caught the incense of a 100 rotting bodies, some white and blue with lividity, others gray and bleeding fresh, I knew hunger was not a word spoken in the shade of this Coliseum.
Men, hiding pink flesh inside blinding armor, poked at me, wishing to drive me away from their slain.
For a time, I would retreat only to circle and come again. They wouldn’t eat it. What god gave them power to deny me my purpose? Persistence and convenience won them over.
Now they house me here, fat and full, Lord of the Spoils.
Leave a comment
Flash! Friday 