1.
The dead stood in the night, swaying on the drifts of snow, today more real than ever, a lone space gaping in their ranks. Eli smirked at the omen: soon, too soon he’ll be one of them.
Shivering in his turned-off Cutlass, he cursed his theatrical attire—a threadbare robe with a Star of David on the chest, too short for his Brobdingnagian arms and legs. His disfigured left arm rested on the knob of an oxygen tank, the port-wine stain around the amputated finger glistening with slick warts.
A dog’s howl carried through the streets. Only yesterday aglow with garlands and Santa trains, today they lay lifeless and dark, par