Picnic at Wild Orchid Meadow
He steers his jeep into town late one mist wreathed night when the full seed moon is muffled by cloud, a stranger whose long-gone mother told him he was a child of Pluto rising, drawn off the highway by the orange beacon of a vacancy sign flickering in the trees. “Been expecting ya,” the night-man says, handing the stranger a key. In the wood and chintz cave of the ‘room for one, for the night—bathroom down the hall’, exhausted, he battles for sleep that dances just fingertips away. The night-man’s words spin round and round in his head, for he