| "there's the strange smell in my home again. ozone. these creeps won't leave me alone. i grip my rolling pin. barefeet and boxers, hair in a rubberband, excorcizing the kinks in my hand. my knuckles are alone in the big, fat silence. cross the hall, pan my eyes, braced like i'm walking on coals. into the unlit dining room which bears the telltale hole: a fresh circle of burned carpet. that's two in the backyard, two in the garage, now one. i check my entourage. the scorches come in pairs-- they've always come in pairs. the exit wound may well be hidden somewhere. either that, or they're still inside. hiding in the dark, crouched, like me. behind a couch, i sharpen my nails with my teeth. don't remember falling asleep. i dream that my house is an airport, that i'm on a red-eye to an island called 'resort', but it's hijacked. the sky has a heart attack. my aisle seat becomes a straight-jacket, and from the cockpit, traversing white shafts of windowlight, the creeps, pairshaped heads bobbing as they gain. there's no one else on the plane. it's me they want." |