The Soul Collector - By Tamela Quijas Page 0,20

long swallow, minute trails of fluid trailed from the sides of his mouth. He gulped loudly, lowering the bottle and wiping at the dampness with the cuff of his tattered coat.

Displaying the agility of youth, he tossed his lean weight onto the soiled blanket covering the bed. He cackled as the mattress protested, and his grip on the bottle didn't relax. The fluid never splashed from the bottle as he situated his body on the misshapen pillows, ignoring the scurrying of roaches. He traced the tip of his tongue over the chipped and yellow contours of his teeth, the action more of one to wet the dryness filling his mouth.

Always parched, he was forever seeking an ever-evasive drop of moisture just beyond his reach.

He sensed the return of the small creatures to the comforter. To his finely tuned ears, he heard the scurrying of their legs, muffled by worn fabric. He remained rigid as the brown forms came closer before his unhindered hand lashed out. His speed was unimaginable, more akin to the lunge of a striking snake, as he captured the struggling body of a roach.

His narrowed eyes focused on the rapidly moving legs of the creature he held between his over long and cracked nails. He was still, brooding as the insect struggled. He watched the creature’s antenna spin and swirl, seeking escape.

Humorlessly, he chuckled, increasing the pressure until the insect's narrow body oozed a mucous-like fluid. The legs of the pest shuddered for a moment, then stilled. The man opened his mouth wide, placed the carcass on his tongue, and relished the ensuing crunch as he closed his mouth.

As if by unseen hands, the set at the foot of the bed clicked to a predetermined channel. He squinted at the apparatus, the faded color of his glassy eyes fastening on the images projected on the flickering screen. His vision cleared and he took an extra deliberate swig from the grimy bottle he held. The sultry and appealing image of the female host remained. A lulling sound filled his ears and his eyes drooped downwards, his intent focus vanishing as crepe papery lids closed over nearly colorless orbs.

Whether the numbing effects of the liquor or the weariness of his aching bones brought on the drowsiness, he didn't know. He preferred sleep, the fingers of Morpheus teasing his numbed brain. Sleep would ease him of the hunger and the need to seek what his damned soul craved.

The woman's voice from the program was soothing and seductive, he thought dimly, paying attention to the gentle cadence. He felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness, faint glitches of her words dropping into the depths of his slumber.

She was an oddity, he thought, intelligent and appealing. Dimly, he admitted she was sexy. She boasted the build of the women of his past, not like those half-starved waifs cavorting about the stage and screen in this age. She had a lusciousness that begged a man to seek the silkiness of her thighs and her ample bosom.

He dozed, her voice spinning in his mind.

Lucien

The name brought him awake. He didn't stay on the soiled coverlet, as most would, wondering if the name was a figment of his imagination or a sleep-numbed mind.

He shook himself, remembering he didn't suffer from such a human frailty.

He shot upwards, awake, and alert. He rubbed at the gritty dryness of his eyes with his knuckles, the half-empty bottle falling to the blanket, unheeded fluid seeping free. He wiped drying spittle from the corners of his mouth and blinked, forcing a semblance of moisture to his eyes, his attention riveted to the flickering images on the set.

A slow and triumphant smile curved his cracked lips while he eyed the man whose face appeared.

Ah, it had been so long!

It had been eons since they had last met.

He listened to the interview, the sultry looks, and husky voice of the anchor no longer appealing. The other held his rapt attention, his carefully placed and antiquated speech flowing familiarly over him.

Memories flooded him, instigated by the words seeping from the man's pale lips. Brutally, he shoved the thoughts aside and focused his anger on the television set. He chuckled as the framed images flickered and danced, the reception instantaneously distorted as the mechanism emitted a mysteriously plume of smoke.

Life had dealt the old man an unfair hand, one he intended to rectify.

New York wasn’t so far away, he thought, calculating the hours it would take to reach the state. Haste was imperative,