Decatur County Fair

He had told her his name meant “Throttle Horse” on the Cowichan reservation where he first learned to dance. She didn’t care. What she knew was that one swift word from his one swift mouth would drive moms and pops (cousins, neighbors) to their knees, trembling in fear, giving up their arms and legs so that he would not take their kidneys.

“You’ve risen so fast, you’ll rise further still… My God, Quinton, you’ve just been made Day Manager. Manager of the Day! What am I, but a pawn, a bit of grass reaching toward your light, I’m nothing but clay… soft clay…”

He grabbed her limp figure and shook, feeling her waves of resistance and submission. He loved her, hated her. Loved her.

“Without clay, how would we have moved into the Bronze Age? And without that, do you think the Chinese would have developed inexpensive polymers in vibrant colors? You may feel like clay, but you’re a lightweight set of translucent nesting bowls in this potter’s hands.”

Their lovemaking was brief, but fairly loud.



"Quinton," from the upcoming as-yet-untitled Decatur County Fair - Lickable Records joint publication of a short lifetime of finds and the truths and lies surrounding them.