Blood Songs
It was hot, excruciatingly so. The red light was so intense that, even with sunglasses on, I had to keep my eyes orientated downwards. I was walking home from work, and had taken a different route than usual, for the sake of minor novelty. The road I was on was unfamiliar, and, even though Newdean was only a small town, I experienced some delight in knowing that there were still parts of it I didn’t know, streets I was yet to tread. The houses were all tall and terraced, red bricks made bloody by the sunlight as evening approached. I slowed my pace and let my eyes glide over the houses, drinking in unkempt gardens, unwashed windows, guttering that sagged from neglect. If I hadn’t done so, I would have missed the box. It was sat on a low garden wall that barely came up to my waist. It was large, cardboard, and filled with books. Curious, I stopped altogether and looked at the titles. They were strange, unfamiliar, sometimes awkward, sometimes elegant and suggestive. I didn’t re