The riot starts over a juice box or some other stupid shit and then the nasty little dogfuckers are everywhere with their teeth and shitty little hands, so Mr Procter has to run to the art room to get something to defend himself with. The big blade is missing off the paper cutter, so he has to settle for an old metal T-square that he swings like an ax. From in here, he can hear grownups dying and little voices screaming that God is dead, a maniac anthem chorused with shrill, cruel laughter.
I burned my face off last night. At first, I thought I’d use a gasoline soaked rag, then remembered all the candles in my attic. I lit two of them. Once the flames had grown larger, I lifted them to my face, letting my skin slowly melt as I hummed in delight. Of course it hurt, but the agony was spiritual. It was the type of pain you are proud to endure, like dying a violent death for a lover.
Six-sided cubes, ivory colored, black-eyed dots, tumbling, bouncing, rattling, futures and fates in the balance. The dice rock and roll in the alley, under the streetlights, reflecting neon red and blue and sometimes, once in a while, colored with flecks, hints, sticky drops of arterial or venous blood.
The croissant had just the right crispness to it.
” Yes, they brought the towels and thank you for doing that, but I need soap for the sink.”
The views from the 22nd floor were stunning. From the East you could see the Silver Cup Studios sign and from the other side of the atrium you could see the Empire State Building already lit up red and green for the holidays, vibrating amidst a vast New York Cityscape.
In the kitchen of a cottage nestled among oak trees they waited – for neighbour, for colleague; for broken doors and strangers with zip-lock bags. Jay was long gone, whipping across fields, toward the blockhouse he’d carved with nails and fire. He crawled into peace and wished he could stay, wished he could curl up on the soft, wet earth and sleep. But if he did they would find him, find him without looking and he wasn’t ready for that medicine, for any medicine – just now his liberty was a sickness he refused to cure. He dug up his plane ticket, kicked things quiet and headed toward the airport.
Her chiming phone, the ring tone meant to be soothing, shattered their sleep. Alice sat straight up. “Yes-yes, what is it?”
It was Mrs. Johnson, two doors away. Her daughter had not returned from last night’s party at the beach. Did Keith know what beach? Could he go down there? It was almost light.
We’d been drinking for hours when he asked me about her. Normally we talked about the rugby or pussy. It’s not that we didn’t have anything meaningful to say to each other; it’s just that when most guys get together they need an hour or two to talk shit before getting to anything real.