THE COLORS OF THE GODS, by Ken HeulerBlood and buttercups spatter from Anderson’s mouth, fade. I roll down my window, hoping the white splinters of wind and the shimmer of the ‘27 Marquette’s worn tires over frosted blacktop will cut the man’s voice.
“It’s near winter, put it back up,” Anderson snaps and continues yammering waves of ripening blood peppered with bright yellow chunks, and closing my eyes will do nothing. I suspect he knows how sickening his voice looks to people like me. He has a malicious face. “You should enjoy the scenery while you can, Mr. Jackson,” he adds wetly. “You won’t find it near so pretty at the hotel.”
Through a haze of wind whine, engine specks, and Anderson’s thick verbal spume I regard New England’s rich trees crowding and crushing the gathered hills. What
