Theresa Monsour
“Vibrating like a car going faster than it could handle. He wanted to escape the sound the shovel had made with that last hit. It reminded him of something. A kitchen sound. An egg cracking? A mallet hitting a tough steak? No. His pa used to buy fryers whole because they were cheaper that way. He’d chop them himself into serving pieces with a meat cleaver. Sloppy and messy. That was the sound. Meat and bone being broken. Crunching and squishing. It’d be a long time before he could handle a raw c...hicken again. He needed to downshift. Needed his pills, and they were in the motel room. He’d calm himself with the next best thing: his music. His discs were in a case on the front passenger’s seat. He grabbed one without looking at it, popped it in, cranked the volume. When he realized the CD he’d picked, he had to laugh. The Grave Digger. Dark and evil German power metal. The guitars and drums pushed the broken bones and meat out of his mind. His first instinct was to keep driving. Keep the pedal to the floor and tear out of town.MoreLess
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