Pale River

Lucca Fraser

I remember two other times when you strangled me to death and all that shit. I remember echoes on the Pale River, struck with a jolt of agony. Oh Barbarian! I remember acrid sheaths of caresses or the bites of a kitten moist at your heels! (It opened up horizons from which no one could escape.) I remember you doing nothing, but writing the rest of it down.

I remember wishing I could have less bliss. I remember you taking a bath in a now entirely empty room after a thirty-second class. I remember the one person who loved you the minute you let her in here spraying dust unspooled on the futon. I remember it covered in leaves! I remember there were dark, savage-grey brambles, old black swirling pastes hanging free from the wall, black black orange horizontal piping leading out on dowel ends, old black black orange old black, starving. I remember starving, engaged in work so trivial it gave me a powerful urge to experiment. I worked all night without any work at all. I stole a blood plume sting from a putrid tomato. I died.

There always are those who have walked through the woods, watchlessly watching on, you know.

Lucca Fraser is a writer and computer scientist, currently living in Nova Scotia. She has published various essays and poems, under various names, and has translated two books in the philosophy of mathematics from French and Spanish, respectively. She occasionally posts at, and can be found at @PETARDHOISTER on twitter.