Page 14 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

every effort to see my art struck entirely from existence,
if not just the headlines. Disguises and stealth and all the
other maneuverings of common murder must occasionally
intrude upon my artistic reverie. These distractions, in direct
proportion to their exercise, diminishes the quality of my
final creation. Or, in sum, too much applied reality can
damage—weigh-down—a would-be work of transcendent
art. Given this, I was thrilled the calling behind the list
required a significant departure from my usual catalogue
of considerations. Some measure of self-awareness and
strategy would be required, but I was largely flying blind,
only a sheaf of paper for a rudder in uncertain skies.
I floated through thickets and meadows, the shadows
of dead trees falling across me, their appreciably colder
shadows making gooseflesh of my exposed skin. The further
into the woods I pushed, the more treetops and brambles
converged, exuding the shelter of gigantic, enclosed places.
Like a carrot strung before a goat, I chased the specter of the
Red Dream, the wolves, and the thing that became them.
After weeks, something finally stirred within the mystery
I walked, something coming into focus, if not clarity. It
was dusk, so I could still see through the growing darkness,
even as the shadows quickly gnawed at the periphery of my
vision. While the night was closing off the world, the pull of
an invisible force kept me one step ahead of the advancing
blackness. Soon, the night was all around me, framing me
within a single blot of dying amber. The dim light drifted
beyond me, letting the darkness crawl across my body,
soft and silent. The shrinking twilight managed to survive
only a few seconds longer before melting around a small
wooden cabin, leaving behind a ghost of warmth the cold
breeze quickly exorcised. The tugging became the slightest
cobweb, persuading me in the direction of the crumbling
shack. I entered through a hole that had once been a door
and strode into its blackened innards.

The Red Son | 17