Sunday, May 10, 2015

Post Traumatic Special Delivery


Billy ripped the page from Phoebe's notebook, let’s face it, he thought, nobody’s ever gonna know; it’s not like anyone gives a shit anyway.
The thumb-start on his faux-retro maglev Hyundai Sinner worked eventually; whacking crackle into the alleyway like some zombie bad lung trauma, and he cranked it into the high street as if he hadn’t already used up eight of his nine lives.
The bipolar traffic honked resentment at his door-handle-testicle-tangling progress through the unsynchronised mind-fuck that posed itself as progress (a political viewpoint that proclaims anyone arguing with its singular premise can go fuck themselves with their left-wing anarcho-socialist values).
Billy ripped the last of his credit from the slipstream of the late-running 5:37 from Hell as it side-swiped its comatose commuter cargo into a sad resemblance of awareness, hoping that the sling-shot momentum thus gained would serve to deliver the message Phoebe’d so recently, and so desperately, scrawled upon the feint of her jealously guarded, preciously teetering-on–the-brink-of-extinction, notebook.



Tales for the attention deficit reader

3 comments:

Harlequin said...

Loved this..... so much raw and poetic side by side. Packed and scorching. Good one, Garth.

Letitia Coyne said...

I'm with you, Leslie Lim. I always find this information recommended and truly enjoy to readers everywhere!

Slainte. :)
Lxx

eddyshaw9272711 said...

After study a few of the blog posts on your web site now, and I actually like your approach of blogging. I bookmarked it to my bookmark website checklist and might be checking back soon. Pls check out my website online as well and let me know what you think. online casino

Bookshop

Buy this book on Lulu. Kindle Version
Kindle Version
© Garth Erickson. Powered by Blogger.

Followers

Page Ranking Tool
Creative Commons License