Twisted Days

9:32 am

It was a grey-green Thursday and I awoke to the sound of banging, like the crackle of a wrench on sewer pipe. Knowing every common sound of the house, from breaking glass and bottle cap pops to short-lived lovemaking and slamming doors, the incessant clanging was foreign.

Rolling a cigarette, I didn’t bother putting on pants and walked out to my back porch, where I spied over the fence beside, a man digging a pizza box-shaped hole. Sweating and obese, he slammed the shovel down again, while standing on the patio pavement next to the hole.

I lit my cigarette and gave in to temptation. “What are you digging?”

He turned and wiped a thick paw across his forehead and squinted up at me.

“A grave.”


“Because nothing dies when it should.”

He turned back to his task, a neighbor whose name I had never known, nor would, burying pieces of his past on a Thursday before noon, quietly resigned to his secrets.

I watched for a few more minutes, but eventually went back inside, orphaning my oversized cigarette in a graveyard, leaving my neighbor to his grim task.

The day lay naked and waiting, unmarred by even the slightest obligation – a rare white whale that had to be hunted – so I went to the kitchen.

Breakfast was essential, or so I’d heard, and it seemed like a good move given my newly formed plan for the day. The smashing of the shovel turned my stomach, but drugs on an empty stomach were never a wise choice.

Cold pizza and half a carton of orange juice later, I opened the freezer and plucked out the tiny ball of foil wedged carefully in the door beside an ice pack. Unwrapping the aluminum, I revealed the tiny green disc, darker in the middle – a summertime SweeTart.

Popping it under my tongue, I put on a pair of crumpled as-yet-unwashed pants and pack a bag of essentials – 4 pens, 2 books, 1 beer, 1 flask, 1 notebook, 3 lighters, a hoodie, a pack of cigarettes and a banana.

Twenty minutes later, the shoveling had stopped, but I knew it would start again soon, in reverse, and I didn’t want to be there to hear it.

Coming up on acid is weird enough without the echo of death in your ears. I looked at the clock as I closed the door – 10:42am.


Read the rest of this truly twisted tale in SN6: MAYDAY ON AMAZON