from the pen of icarus blake

I see them in the morning, when I squint against the sun streaming in through curtainless windows. Spots of light at the corner of my vision, fireflies flashing their morse code into the ether. I blink and they’re gone, the shine of the morning dims mundane. Coffee massages away the last dregs of the headache they leave behind.

I see them when I’m driving. Seven hours behind the wheel from here to Las Vegas. They glitter on the surface of the desert and tell me I need to pull over. I nap in the back of the van, and when I wake up sweating only the headache remains. I cool down with a Red Bull and crank the air conditioning for the last stretch.

I see them late at night when I stare into a bright screen in a dark room until my eyes ache. They start flashing at the corners of my vision, mixing with the shadows in the doorway, and stay after I close my eyes. I hear them laughing when I sleep, and if I fall awake I make another pot of coffee and wait until morning.

Today I drank my coffee and watched the sun rise. Mica glitters in the dirt when the sun hits it right, flashing back into my eyes. I blink away, but the sprites are there when I turn into the tent. They flash and dance, but I can’t look directly at them. They laugh and scamper away before I can see what makes the light. Have I slept? I haven’t slept. The coffee is mud in my cup. Twelve hours to Phoenix. I look at the mica, but the sprites are still there.

Something bites me while I’m driving. I slap the back of my neck and pull my hand away wet with sweat. The highway lies long and straight ahead of me, dust swimming across it as the wind batters us. Me and the sprites, chattering in my ears under the sound of the road beneath the tires. There’s no radio out here.

Phoenix burns the same at night as it does in the day. The sprites are brighter at night. Shadows join them, their passage disturbing the lights like passing through a cluster of gnats as they hang in the air. Schooling like fish. I think one of the sprites goes out, but I can’t tell. I step on a scorpion and it crunches underfoot, guts spilling on the motel carpet. The sprites burn louder.

It’s not day in Kayenta, but the sprites cling to the contours of the landscape and blind me, each one an oncoming LED headlight in the desert dark. The pile of cans in the passenger seat grows. I crack another can of Red Bull as my eyes droop. I swerve on the empty road with the first lukewarm sip.

The road is rough beneath the tires. Sprites cling to the sunflowers cracking through the road, closing in on the sides. The sun won’t rise above the horizon, leaving it painted red at the edges. The flowers nod. The gas light flashes. The van stops. I am out of coffee.