The Urban Fantasy Anthology

by Peter S. ; Peter S. Beagle; Joe R. Lansdale Beagle

  I have had the statue of my mother moved into my new bedroom and placed in my line of sight. The arrow in her bow points directly at my forehead and I now see a look of lust and self-loathing on her features that I didn’t see before. I want to look at that statue; I want to look at it hard and long.

  I think often of my father.

  I know that soon my tear ducts will rob the liquid they need so desperately from my eyeballs, turning them into crackly paper orbs, and that, naturally, I will go blind.