Homing

"Reminiscent of the best and darkest work of David Morrell and Dan Simmons, the new collection by Pete Mesling, None So Deaf, crackles with malignant life and death. You can smell and taste these stories, which are written with a surgeon's eye for detail and a mortician's sense of drama. Highly recommended!"—Jay Bonansinga, New York Times bestselling author of The Walking Dead: Invasion and Self Storage.


The paint had flowered away from the wall beneath his windowsill. Most would have assumed the area, no more than two inches wide, had been that way for a long time and they were only now noticing it. Not Jimbo. His first thought was that the flaw had appeared earlier in the night while he slept, or maybe right before his very eyes, as he’d sat there on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall in his candy-striped pajama pants.
Why hadn’t he noticed that the bare spot bore the shape of an inverted heart?
He reached forward, intending to worry a dirty-pink curl of paint away from the wall and change the shape of the mark, when something about the blank area itself claimed his attention. His hand stopped cold in mid air. His bare toes drummed silently, nervously, on the hardwood floor, and he leaned in closer to have a better look. There was movement at the center. No, everywhere. A universe existed in the heart on his wall, and it smelled like an ocean on fire.
Never having loved, he touched the living blemish with some hope. Time accelerated, drawing him into the hole with sudden, shrinking fury. It felt like going home.
His neighbors might have understood the troubling shriek that echoed through the run-down apartment building if they’d watched him depart this world, leaving his skin and bones behind in a slick red pile, along with his candy-striped pajama pants.


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