Hi everyone, hope all is well.
Bad People Were Babies Too is being released on Amazon as a 3-part series on October 13.
Here is an excerpt:
Bad People Were Babies Too
My eyes set upon an ashtray growing its own mountain of cigarette butts. From my horizontal position on the couch I could stick my tongue out and lick one of the butts if I was so inclined. Why I would be inclined to lick said butts is a thought to mull over for another day
I turned over and stuck my nose into the dusty seat cushions to try and avoid the shining sun. The silly, stupid shining sun, as if there was something to shine about. Interesting fact: the scent of dusty seat cushion is infinitely better than that of cigarette butts and a wasted life.
I tossed and turned in the dust for another few hours, but the sun was shooting its rays directly into the back of my head. The heat was seeping through my cranium out of my forehead and making the couch cushions awfully hot. In essence, the shiny sun had made its mind up to destroy my plans to marinate in cool, dark, depression in peace. Damn you sun, damn you I say.
I heard the sound of another human, my stomach churned. He was in the bathroom, surprisingly up early for someone who had spent the better part of the night fashioning a crack pipe, smoking crack, losing can crack pipe, searching apartment dumpster for cans to fashion new crack pipe, smoking crack, losing pipe – you get the picture.
I ran to the bedroom and slammed the door while also trying to lock it, but he was pushing and pushing and pushing. I pushed and pushed too, but there was a tiny gap that I couldn’t close and so the door was unlocked. He pushed, he pushed, he was close to 200 lbs., me probably around 105 lbs., so after a minute or so I just couldn’t hold it back anymore. It came crashing open, I jumped back. He stood there and stared at me with his lip slightly curly-cued into a smirk.
“You’re a real, dumb bitch aren’t you’ a real fucking dumb bitch.”
“Fuck you,” I whispered.
“What, what’d you say?”
As it’s happening, I feel it happening. He pushes both of his hands on my chest and pushes me onto the bed. His hands move up and he has my neck, his hands are all the way around.
Oh, God. I can’t breathe. I’m trying to kick upward with my legs. But, oh God he is pushing down so hard. Now there are only tiny, tiny little bits of air.
I try one more time and kick up. This time I hit him somewhere because he let’s go for a second. His face, his eyes. He is so mad. I see his hand coming at me.
Little spiders run across my cheek up into my skull, the left side of my face feels numb. Slap, sing, tear, tear, slap, sting, pause. With one hand resting on my neck, he pulls back.
Since I was a kid I always had this vision that there was a Dad’s house. Some people call him – the power or the God or any number of names to connote a being that knows all, or at least knows what the hell we’re doing on earth.
I think Dad’s house was discovered when I was in the third grade. It was September in Toronto