I started a short story on the bus. Today, on the hot bus. Sitting sideways, not in an artistic manner. Atwood has given me a sense of humor. The previous sentence rings true of it. I'm having nightmares of knocking on faux-wood doors and the answer coming in the form of a series of gun shots to my abdomen. The door stays closed during the whole process. There are no handles on the steps, but I don't fly backward. Where's the recoil? This is because of the job search process. Four gapping holes and theatrical blood, in colour--not motion. It's always more of a flash than a curtain call. I miss my mother. Point blank. When will I ever get the chance to say that again.
Posted by caroline at May 26, 2005 4:06 PM