Before I begin the piece proper, I’d like to do a bit of self-aggrandizement. I had a poem of mine (related to but distinct from Corona III published last weekend) accepted for publication at NewMyths.com. The piece won’t go live until their September issue, and I’ll remind everyone of it then, but in the meantime, I thought I’d share my excitement with you, my readers. Thank you for reading, for your comments, for both your tacit and open support. I know I’m not the greatest at self-promotion and community engagement, but knowing that you’re out there really does help keep me going. So, thank you. Sincerely.
Okay, enough mushy stuff. Let’s have some goddamn blood and guts.
You know what really sucks? Getting shot over and over for eternity.
It sucked. It blew. It got up on a table and did a cute little interpretive dance about expectations and futility and existential angst and fellatio and cunnilingus and then it got shot. Right in the fucking face.
Again and again, world without end, amen.
But it wasn’t always the face. Most of the times it was the face, but sometimes it was the arm. Sometimes the body or the groin. Very rarely the legs. When it wasn’t the face or an organ or the groin, it was often a joint. Time slowed down. It could feel the bullet breaking skin, displacing muscle, cracking bone, fragmenting and sending shards through its tissue Richard’s tissue its Richard tissue like so much shrapnel.
Richard was bitter. No, it was bitter. It. It was not Richard. Richard was not it. It was it.
An eyeball popped, vitreous humor like jelly. Teeth shattered like candy. Richard hated it. It hated Richard. It happened again. Richard died again. Richard didn’t die, because he couldn’t die, because it was all a test. The next round blew off its testicles. The one after punctured his chest, Richard’s heart deflating like a popped baloon.
It. Richard. Ritchard. Ritch. Rich. It.