To Make Great Art, You Had To

So In The Sweltering Heat Of A July Night, I Sang A Christmas Carol To A Room Full Of Fae, Who Had Been Driven Out Of Their Homelands By Christians And Their Cold-iron Swords.

A Cowboy, A Lawyer, And A Mechanic Watched Queen Of The Damned,” I Murmured. Warren—who Had Once, A Long Time Ago, Been A Cowboy—snickered And Wiggled His Bare Feet. “it Could Be The Beginning Of Either A Bad Joke Or A Horror Story.” “no,” Said Kyle, The Lawyer, Whose Head Was Propped Up On My Thigh. “if You Want A Horror Story, You Have To Start Out With A Werewolf, His Gorgeous Lover, And A Walker.

See You Tomorrow,” He Said, Instead. “all Right.” Then, Impulsively, I Asked, “do You Have A Place To Sleep Tonight?” “sure,” He Said With A Smile, And Started Off As If He Had Somewhere To Be. I Could Have Bitten Off My Tongue Because I Pushed Him Into A Lie. Once He Started Lying To Me, It Would Be Harder To Get Him To Trust Me With The Truth. I Don’t Know Why It Works That Way, But It Does—at Least In My Experience.

Americans In Particular Are Oddly Innocent In Their Faith That Science Holds Explanations For Everything.

C’est Moi, C’est Moi,’tis I,' I Told Him. It Seemed Appropriately Melodramatic, Though I Didn’t Know If He’d Catch The Reference. I Shouldn’t Have Worried. Unexpectedly, He Laughed. “trust You To Quote Lancelot Rather Than Guinevere.