Nothing prepares me for what I behold. The Banque de Triomphe—-The Bank—-built by the giants of the past—-those patriots who molded Aracadia from the mud of royal shoes into a goliath floating above the world. And finally, I have reached Maturation, where I will seek higher education that prepares me for my ultimate responsibility, my …
“I’m Clark Benson,” says the white-haired man in a three-piece suit, “and this is…” he holds his microphone out to a packed studio audience. “PORTAL PIRANHAS!” The crowd’s roars mix with piped theme music, making my ears crackle. I want to cover them but remember I’m on TV and everyone is tuned in—even those assholes …
Blood blurs my vision, cakes under my nails, and coats my tongue. Macabre work warrants a droning rhyme. “Pull my string, I unravel. Stitch my skin, pull me in.” Nimble fingers pull joints apart, sew holes closed, and package “products” in ice. “Attention. Arms required.” “Pull my string, I unravel.” I tug the cord holding …
Reap What You Sew (PUblished in Killer Nashville Magazine) Read More »
“Laughter can become a sickness,” I say, meeting the expectant eyes of the newest members of our colony. “Same can be said for running and reading when proper precautions aren’t met.” I breathe deeply and put a smile on my face—the first for many days. Whatever I say-really whatever anyone says-Grayson Isle is a prison. …
“…4…3…2…1, Happy New Year!” Confetti covers my signature fedora. Paper pieces swirl in my lungs. I choke. I hate meaningless holiday–and the people who love them. Sounds like one of those ancient daytime trash talk shows. But my disdain casts no shadow on the merriment. Chatter, piercing paperhorns, and streetlights converge on my drug-influenced mind. The …
