Dry Spooktober

A bundle of fabric and bones rolled onto the grass between 12th Avenue and the sidewalk in Vancouver’s West End. Had darkness not come to the exhausted metropolis, Caleb Mauthisen would be a stain on the roadway.
The few pedestrians who strutted off to Granville street’s restaurants and gallery shows crossed to the other side of the road. Poor thing, driven from drink to drug until only the street would claim him. Better lock the car door, best not let him see you look, he might think you’ve got spare change. An apple. A clever pill.
Hyperion had left him, as the elder sun god abandoned Ouranos, as he’d left Kronos a field of dry sand pummelled by the rock he swallowed whole. Caleb rolled to his belly and a garbled groan curled from the dust of his coat. The sound rose as a hymn to the raven headed Lamia and its’ once human lascivious claws.
Caleb panted and pushed his hand into the bundle of rags across his midriff. His lips parted over red-stained, loose teeth.

— The Lamia