Fast Freddy died slow. He’d been on his way out for damn near two decades. In most respects he’d died with Lucky . . .
Tag: Mondays Are Murder
7:28 a.m. Geneva grabbed Roosevelt’s shoulder as he stood at his locker and turned him around. He rolled his eyes and went back to rummaging through his books. “We need to talk,” she said . . .
The ice pick hung there on a nail. I grabbed it—Ricky was going down. I told that fucking idiot not to leave anything behind. He knew . . .
Dorothy stumbled blindly into the lesbian bar as the last few off-season tourists perambulated the crooked streets, the evening sky a dull antimony pink behind the smoke-blackened canyon of the Cowgate, her hands wet and the bloody knife still in her handbag . . .
My Play Now, Pay Later Rusty Linings Playbook, too scuffed up and soiled to read, hopeless hodgepodge hieroglyphics really. I’ve got to find unity in community amongst my fellow city dwellers . . .
Gustav split her skull instead of the log . . .
I don’t remember how I ended up doing what I was doing. Every fiber of my being shook when the alarm went off as the clock struck seven. I threw a glance at the clock and then looked at the view outside the big glass wall in the lounge, reminiscing about the time I spent planning this vacation out and how excited I was. I thought things would work out between me and Richard if we spent some time together. In a couple of seconds, my mind was drawn back to what I had to do . . .
My brother Sid was a fire starter who started early. He was twelve. He was precocious. He was an igniter atrocious. He was a pyromaniac poet laureate . . .