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The door was shut, and no invitation was coming. Mama dabbed sweat from her brow and soothed the children to comfort herself. Papa was silent. They had reached a threshold they could not cross, and the words of the New Colossus rang bitter and empty. Baby cried. Mama cooed. Papa stared at the locks on the golden door. Parasite, the burghers spat. Bloodsucker, Freeloader, Leech; but the masses huddled on the stoop had not asked for their thirst. Their water had been poisoned, their manors razed, their fields salted and burned by fires kindled by the suburbanites who now sneered at their plight. They had endured an odyssey on a promise and a dream and the rusted bones of a bus, only to be frustrated by a false word, a friendly hand rescinded, and a thin band of running water. The hypocrisy stung, stank, like garlic rubbed in a fresh wound. Scrub rustled in the darkness and Papa tensed. Their guide slunk into the firelight, face twisted in a lupine leer, and led the clan to a box truck and a stack of crates. In, he growled. Blackness enshrouded them, close and hot, and as their casket lids were nailed shut. Mama clutched her rosary. Prayers were all they had left. * * * The moon no rest glared down no breath at his fleeing form. one gasp Torchlight behind him please flickered over his heaving shoulders, teeth ground the dogs and the pigs called out afresh, jaw clenched and the chase continued. The sun was late tonight. heart pounds Surely it should be dawn by now. He ran. legs burn The pigs and their dogs damn howled behind him fuck and he pushed on. Killer; Brute; Predator; Animal; Beast. Beware at night. That’s when they hunt. Torchlight ahead. Barking behind. Cornered. Badges glint in the full moon, deadly silver. Hands fly to the sky, too fast (might have claws), and the pigs let their muzzles fly. The hunt ends as the red sun rises. The monster looks like a man in the blood dawn. Nothing changes. * * * The bell dings on the diner door. He takes a shuddering breath and relaxes his shoulders, sliding into a booth and shedding his coats. He winces; the torn vinyl is almost arctic. A woman--Annette, reads her nametag; she reminds him of his aunt—saunters up, calls him honey, and fills his mug with coffee. Behind thick-rimmed glasses she tallies up his haircut, his fitted shirt, his nails, and her lips tighten. He smiles up at her anyway. Grin and bear it. The bell dings again, admitting a chill gust and his date. They wipe their glasses and squints around the greasy spoon, starting towards the booth and adding more jackets—they come in multitudes—to the heap on the bench seat. They slide in; they wince; Annette fills his mug; Annette forms more opinions; they smile up at her anyway. Both add cream and sugar, spoons clinking as they craft their morning brew, the first of many throughout the day. They chat about work and his sick mother and their dog’s bowel issues. At points his laughter leaps up and pirouettes over the radio, echoed by their low, self-conscious chuckle. Other times they sit in silence and sip their potent potions, gazes locked. In those moments they can make out the mutters behind the counter. Whispers of their strange appearance--I can tell one just by looking at ‘em—of their unsettling customs--Nobody right acts like that—of unknown and nefarious schemes--I don’t want them infecting my kids with whatever sick thoughts run through their heads— and their fingers lock tightly. Annette is silent and stiff when she refills their mugs and clears their plates. Their time here is up. They bundle up and leave post-haste, back into the cold. They almost hold hands. Burn them! Bitch, they’re on fire already. Drown them! Do you think they breathe easy now? Cast them out! As if they want to be one of you anyway. They dress weird; my skin crawls when they look at me; who knows what sinister schemes are whispered in their head? It ain’t all about you, honey. Get over yourself. Brooms aren’t the only sticks they ride at night. Covet their coven. It’s a closer bond than you know.
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