Fiction Excerpt

Kilt Too Damned Many

I found this last night in a file folder full of old stuff–I’ve no idea when I wrote it, or why, or in what context, but I sure wish I did.

“A hero, pffft.” Keaner spat, “there’s them to call him that, and you say rascal which is something closer to the mark. A killer is the truth of it—a warlock, a demon, a he-witch and a defiler. He ages just a day for every 40 years and he can’t be kilt no matter what. He’s been cut, stuck, shot, smashed and burned—only the worst of it even scars him. Them injuns he cavorts with say he’s got tree sap for blood, that even if you cut him down at the ankles and cubed up his meat the bastard would grown right back from the stump like a locust and just as thorny. He’s a devil, that’s the bottom of it.”

“Why a devil, Mr. Keaner?” Arlene smiled in her mischief, “Why not an angel?”

“Aw, he’s kilt too damned many for that, little doll-girl.”

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

3 replies on “Kilt Too Damned Many”

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