She wakes up slowly. The fragments of the dream that she can recall with ease she tries to fit together, all the while knowing that the picture will never be complete.
The pain is in the small of her back and in the space around her liver.
One day, she thinks, it’s all going to come down in a shower of stiff rain, rock and roll and dreadful shimmer. She’ll walk out, be absorbed by the storm, screaming, and no-one will hear.
But in the meantime she just wraps his big coat around her and bends her back into the wind again.
Life and death: a sequence of repeats, a movie that she watches again and again.
How does it all begin?
I of fish? You of pork? They of lamb and we of beef? He of lungs and she of teeth? It of brains and heart and liver and spleen and blood and unrecognizable flesh?
“Offal,” he tells her, “that’s where it starts and ends.”
Filed under: original fiction | 3 Comments
Nice to see the Hit Man back on the prowl…how are your book plans coming along?
Thanks for your interest, Mike. Things are kind of complicated right now. I’ve got all the guts of the thing and now I need to work on the narrative. Thing is I’ve got a lot of distractions that I’ve had difficulty fending off. It’ll happen, though, and this year.
Nice to hear from you. Is the job you were doing a regular thing?
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