Monday, December 26, 2016

Excerpt from Vol III: ‘Luck’


Two years of living in Queens, and I hadn’t made it: I didn’t have any dependable friends, unless you count the pre-med students I sold to; couldn’t sit still long enough to prove everyone wrong by writing the next ‘Great American Novel;’ and couldn’t afford to leave. I was on a park bench, eating a gourmet meal of assorted mints, in the company of two black garbage bags the evidence clerk had shoved all of my ‘approved for release’ items into. That is when it happened.

I hadn’t heard them running. They hadn’t cried out for help.

Dressed in dark, muddied clothing, no more than a foot from the bench, they collapsed in the grass. The whispers I heard about tents and “going back to our park” gave them away: occupy protesters.

When morbid curiosity finally disguised itself as Good Samaritan duty, I walked over and saw the holes in them. Rubber bullets. Hand in hand, they shared possession of the evidence, awaiting the tomb of rigor mortis.

Two men. One wore a red flannel shirt, had a shaved head and scraggly gray beard, which added a touch of character to his blotted-with-pimples and graying skin. The other had brunette locks and was still taking in air, weakly, despite the blood spilling from his chest—mingling with the shallow puddle at his partner’s side. I knew then.

They were my ticket. 

-- End Except--

Happy reading,

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