Dead Decades

Blake Kilgore

The other self — the one with power and hunger, lays daily offerings at the feet of his gods. He lies, calling them innocent names — distraction, pleasure, duty. But my strength is gone, talent stolen. When I question, he smiles and sings a lullaby. I sleep then, waking years later, ghastly and faint. In time the cycle of slumber widens, synapses become wintry, dead decades are buried under snow.

There remains a far glimmer; I yearn for its warmth. Talons run through my hair, soothing. Drooling fangs are shadows in the blizzard. The other self fled, abandoning me. I am alone to face the beast, falling night. I must hammer, shriek, weep, flee! But I dare not sleep. The earth is moving round, and dawn will come.


Blake Kilgore   lives in Burlington, New Jersey, with his wife and four sons. People there treat him with kindness, and he is at ease living among the old and tall forests of the Garden State. His lingering accent, however, verifies that his heart is still Texan and Okie. Blake's writing has appeared in Forge, Lunch Ticket, Midway Journal, The Stonecoast Review, Thrice Fiction and other fine journals. To learn more, please visit

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