After the last song, we started down a dark street. There was a sound like the shock of a dropped eight-string, and it clouded our territory with distressed and anxious gnats, burrowing into our ears with a visceral scratching, the kind of scratching that may prompt one to beat himself for no reason other than to clear its echoes. A quick, sharp wail and an interrupted gasp followed the shock. Silk woven bags of sand spun and met their surroundings with the force of riot pellets against hard metal. But this was around the corner in an alley that always smelled of blood and burning heroin. That wasn’t our alley, ours was a block north. I felt the tingle in the back of my head again. The spiders were stepping ever so slowly up and down the inside of my skull, their sharp weaving feet tapping back and forth. I would soon breathe it again. Smell it, taste it, know it. The drip like old vitamins mother fed me twenty years ago. My primal instincts would best me soon, forcing me to crawl into my shadow beneath the grid once again.
Robert Lundgren 1 Minute
Published by Robert Lundgren
Captivating the nature of fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and language. As of 2018, this site will be primarily for nonfiction works. View all posts by Robert Lundgren