There was a moles nest.
A sleeper cell of morbidity flounced in pearls, T-shirts, aprons and Sunday jackets. We never knew where the next ankle-crunch would come from. Some were do-gooders, with neatly edged driveways and a perfectly-landed newspaper that no one read, rolled up on their Mary Poppins porch of sunshine. Some were ass kissers trying to fit in with the Sunday brunch crowd. They scratched a lot of backs, those filthy coat tail rats. Some baked cookies and read bedtime books. Others wrote romantic essays where the couple walks away happy, holding hands. Such bullshit. The moles were delusional and left camouflaged holes for us to step into. Hoping for a fresh meal to chew on, and to stay entertained...they waited. Accepting us just to search for the strain... the spider webbed cracks in our skin that made them feel good. Now, we just don't go in.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |