Creature Feature; or, The Book of Monsters

BY C.J. Opperthauser


You could call it a restraint but often I sleep better than mummies but often an equal amount of bandage. Last year I ran all knuckles and knees, all werewolf if you can think it, picture that, picture the moon and the voodoo and whatever else the recipe calls for. Of course there were nights of sleeping and of bedroom, of closet curled up nervous between boxes, pale on flatness no lightbulb nothing. Then there were the dreams of flying, the nightmares of wisp-fog and falling, the vampire flutter equal dark and tilting. I never could but in movies. In movies I never could either. The lake monsters were spot-on but still the coldness in deepness shiver. Lagoons all black and so my eyes from blue, and so my skin from pale, and so cartilage until the smoke-chatter claimed it dreaming and fine. Now the cracking creaking slowness without age so something like a zombie but not entirely directed graveyards. Streams an issue. Small thuds internal and I know it's coffin elated. Call it what you will but it's mine inside me and so the free-fall.