Short stories


     I poured a finger of scotch into a coffee cup. Ate the cup. Licked up the spilled scotch. Chewed the mouth of the fifth down to the neck. Was wolfing the table leg, when mother came in to iron some bugs out of her pocket calculator; couldn’t help but notice the ruined fifth, the cup nowhere, the table wobbly on three legs.

     She threatened to knuckle down and hand it to me. But I trumped her rump. Tugged the table leg out of my throat. Clubbed her to death.

     Blood spattered the venetian blinds. Teeth rattled the radiator. One eye popped into the toaster. And mother slumped to the foot of the refrigerator.

     I threw up a window. Sat on a foot stool. Re-swallowed the table leg. Munched on the arm of a chair till I was stuffed. Then jerked down the wall phone and ate out the mouthpiece and considered sucking the news off the tv.

     But decided instead to put the mouth of a firearm to my temple and pray.

Willie Smith

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