July 17, 2012
When the old spinster died, all the sour old love she had kept in her heart for probably a century began to leak out. Filtered by her now-cold flesh it became a sweet pink mist, like how foul ambergris becomes fine perfume with careful artistry.
So the pink mist filled the lower parts of town, turning coy aside glances into electric rapier-thrusts, turning love poems into hydrogen bombs blowing open a heart’s gates, turning a xeric, cracking town supple and yielding. Old ashes of marriages erupted into flame, young romances swore by blood and the moon and every damn thing on Earth that even mighty Death would not part them, and many fat babies who would burst with love for the rest of their long lives were born in zygote fusions hotter than a blue star.
The old spinster lay amongst all this, inert and insensate forever, never knowing her true desire of an empty heart.
PS: The “zygote fusions” line is so stupid it must be genius.