Taste of Souls
By Chip Marks

We had been down these roads before, my friends and I. Drinking sprees dragging our passed out brethren to the Oldsmobile after they puke all memory of the night along the side of the road. Not a bad choice when you missed all the fun because you could not control your urge to bury it all. I had many nights like that and many chances and dreams swept away in a tide of vomit and rolling eyes, those times never to come before me again. Pools of stench I just as soon had been too slathered to remember.
But this night was different, one of alones and cold, blowing trees and sounds. Sounds one doesn’t look forward to at least not when one is alone. As if the source of the sound knows what you have done and it follows you just beyond the last few footsteps in the snow. Horror movies in the cold I remember hiding under beds, footie pajamas shiver. Still miles to go before you can wash off the stains that you know will never go away. The kind you think people can smell when you enter the room… not foul but frightening to the souls. Inherent primordial fear they smell from a past that comes down from caves of anger, firelight rages, fur and clubs blood and bone. They smell there end even if they are not in your sights, they smell what only you know the truth about. The guilt could push you over the edge but you know better. You can only be guilty if you gave a damn. But right now you just need to make it out… out of the cold away from the trees. Still miles to go and you can taste someone elses soul as you long for warm liquids that burn away memories of flowing color, color that no man wants to see… the color of fear.