55 fiction: short story
his head smashed in like drywall, his eyes singing singsongs to me from their faraway perch and his breath escapes in shortening spasms. the metal typewriter poised in my veiny arms, i think of myself as some stoic figurine, gloating at what i’ve done. as his wriggling subsides, i clutch the manuscript. my story now.
Posted on Tuesday, August 21st, 2007 at 3:25 pm. Filed under Scripts.