“. . . I feel – a laugh coming on.”
Anomaly constrictor – jigs with
teeth and front molars dip low with
a suede ballroom dance. Black
suit sea – salty toilet water in a wine
glass. The table cloth is a compilation
of bloody aprons. Vomit sorbet. Hills
of blonde and valleys of brunette. Watch
yourself honey, they say I’m a daaaangerous
man. Seasoned creases with a comforting
seniority. The skin, it’s just so beautiful.
Tough meat, cleaving potential into a version
of eternity. It ain’t a walk in the park, but
it’ll do.
“. . . Don’t you want to live forever?”
The cute blonde shuffles into the bathroom,
and I need inspiration. This novel ain’t gonna
write itself. The broad is juggling an upset
stomach, no – she’s pregnant. Waltzing write
in, the freaky abnormal riff rides the jazzy
concerto the speakers blast with. It’s like
an oblong bass, a pitch deformation. Definite
setting. Loud music. Bathroom locks.
“C’mere sweetie.”
I grab her by the wrists. Her knuckles crack
open like eggs against the wall.
“Wha-what are you going to do?”
Shut up! SHUT UP! I need to write this
novel, DON’T screw it up for me.
Red meat. Rare in the center. I claw towards
the center. The screams are no match for the
disturbing sound of ripping flesh. A fetus
is visible. Miscarriage resumes.
I worked it up, hun. Thanks a lot, bye-bye.
She slumps; I don’t bother cleaning the mess.
Good legs. Nice little body. She got it.
Ripping out a steno pad as small as a diary
and a pen, I scribble down notes. The tape
recorder in my vest keeps ticking. 0456 –
0460.
A writer’s recipe is never pretty.
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