The acid was insanely potent this time. I was in my Halloween costume, dressed as a soldier of all things. This was no time for games. Shea was waiting for me in the basement, or maybe she was being gangraped by a pack of orthodox jewish gangsters, and waiting for me just the same. DOWN I pressed. DOWN goddamnit this is taking forever. Sitting in this elevator for what seems like an eternity. 12th floor. Man with dog. Hello dog. Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something in my teeth. Oh, the skin is burned and hanging off my nose - that was from the napalm. Good bye. Have a nice long life. Finally the door opens to the basement. The disco ball flashes at me. I step out. It's a rave. Am I the only soldier here? There is a hot dog. And a devil. There are bad vibes here. Shea is not here. UP. UP. UP. UP. UP. UP. UP.
bon Baron
(joined
about 14 years
ago)
I always knew I would be a writer, ever since I was 9 years old and I got my first A++ on a creative writing assignment. I suppose I should wonder if I do it for the promise of approbation. In any event, I never actually did become a writer. I became a lawyer. Now I am 40, and wondering whether I will ever fulfill my potential as a writer. I like the idea of the 6 minute story, because that seems to be all my brain can give at any one time to the deep, empty pocket that is my audience. If you leave me comments, and dare I wish, approbation, then perhaps I will expand my ouvre and fulfill my destiny.
