Horror Fictions

At some point in every horror film comes the line: It’s alive! Is this the way the dead feel when we disturb their rest with our roots & our pickaxes, our squirming purple larvae & our blind snouts? We are the zero in their bones, that slick thick marrow, mother of blood. We are their unlucky rabbits’ feet, the throw of their dice. We creep & crawl. We erupt, dangerous as magma. Someday the sun will bring us all together, living & dead, in one molten paroxysm, but until then we can meet only in the briefest of spasms, & are listed together in the credits for moan, rattle & almost imperceptible sigh.