After he buried his father in an enormous coffin made from towering cured pine logs, he thought often of leaving the island, of swimming the chopping inland sea, to proclaim his inheritance from man, proclaiming he was half them, half something else—to be worshipped, absolutely—but also to seek love, yes, to be held. Then the drink would take him, drag him down and, instead, he would wrestle the bears and hunt with the wolves and break the necks of the geese for sport and chide Babe until he felt sickly satisfied in his depravity.
A huge shout-out to Brian and the team at matchbook for making this an incredibly easy (and rewarding) process—this is, absolutely, a dream publication.
