Deer Musk

The whole town smelled like chives and onion with a dash of mustard. Maciek sampled the popular dish. Chips, thin as a shoelace, mayo on the side. Clams in large pot with white wine brine. Strange, though, this hankering for deer musk. Perhaps this. The forest moved inside him. After all those years in rural Poland. There, at the other table, the man, his antlers shining, an aura of deer musk. When he doffed his cap, Maciek moved a little closer. His soaked jeans: sexy. Also, his gaping mouth hole. Maciek would like to move inside there. Riding the waves of his tongue board. Crashing against his rocky teeth. Maciek looped his thumb through his belt loop and then looped him into his white van. Outside the window, blinding rain. There weren’t a lot of dirty pictures in my youth, said Maciek, staring straight ahead. Nothing beneath the mattress. But the bishop’s son had a game on his PC. You tapped the space key faster and faster to hear some distant moans from the toothpick with a wig bent over. The van continued to climb the hills. Old withered grape vines. Old haciendas sinking into mud puddles. Maciek was feeling the rutting. The musk man flagged his white tail. Snorts and rasps. The power lines sizzled and the town went black.

BIO: Marcus Silcock is a high school teacher in Barcelona, Spain, originally from Portadown, Northern Ireland. He co-edits the surreal-absurd literary magazine Mercurius. His recent stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in publications including Willow Springs, Maudlin House, The Gorko Gazette, Bending Genres, Fictive Dream, Broken Antler, and Your Impossible Voice. His latest book is Dream Dust (Broken Sleep Books, 2025), a collection of microfictions and prose poems. Find out more at www.neverm indthebeasts.com