Thursday, February 18, 2016

Pinhole

      He’s flailing about through every room of the house like a rogue fire hose shooting water in all directions, screaming like a machine gun clattered to the concrete spraying bullets. The echoes of his yells ricochet off the walls, bounce back and forth like a vat of superballs dumped into an empty swimming pool. A shower of dice bounce off the carpet, carried by the tornado that swept through the casino where he lost it all, the same whirlwind that also whipped up a flurry of playing cards and spun all the Roulette wheels in the wrong direction. Ripples of thunder emanate from the closet, where the coat hangers sizzle, wreathed in ribbons of lightning. Bursts of color splatter the halls as Roman candles sizzle in the pantry, whirling Catherine wheels spit sparks in the dining room, strings of firecrackers crackle like chili peppers in the kitchen. She stands in the center of it all, in the black pupil of his hurricane, pressing two fingers against the pulse that throbs in her cold left wrist.

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