The Conjuring
Last night as he rolled and bucked and grappled with the covers, Spenser was temporarily dazzled by the static sparks crackling from fingertip, palm, and wrist. Little cosmic flares, bright enough to glow in the cavernous universe he had hollowed out with torso and knee, knee and blanket, toes and blanket. Something dreamy, unreal, the way the fragile halflight catches creases and seams, glimmers drowning in the folds. A quiet flurry that reminds him of shivered teacups. Vanishments as sudden and bright as windchimes dying on the breeze. He feels the tiny bite of each discharge and imagines himself a god — a god newborn or a dying god, he can’t decide. Scattering a clutch of stars across nameless horizons. Cupping meek incantations, all alone in the drowsy dark.
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