They want the story to be human: filled with blood, dried lips, mucus-summoning coughs, blind spots, assumptions, whispered threats and screaming pain when a fire gets near. They want a story to pick lint from its pubes with whiskey on its breath and piss into cold toilet water before the sun back-lights the dark, grey sky into a shade of silver like bullets being poured from teeth in a barn as the wind and wolves howl. They want a man to cry over doughnuts and a woman to bleed from her fists, smiling. They want me to make a golem of words and set it out in the hills one night to see if it finds its way home.
I know it won’t. It will find its way to your window, and it won’t be as human as they want. Something will have interfered, filled its head with alien memories, given it dog tongue and lizard tooth, told it about candy without giving it a taste. Try to write me a human and what comes out has too many eyes, not enough skin. Voice like a radio tuned to a local station in the middle of a gas attack. Try to write me a human and all that pulls itself from the word-slime is hunger and asshole meat.