By Bev Vincent.
Read by Ben Phillips. Music by Randy Garcia.
My chest is heavy, hair brushes against my neck in an unfamiliar way, and my groin… Through the unaccustomed daze, a terrible comprehension floods my mind. I throw back the sheet to reveal a body I?m used to looking at from a different perspective.
By Bev Vincent.
Read by Matthew Wayne Selznick.
“You got beaten up a lot as a kid, didn’t you?”
That’s what Jerry Brower asked me, and the entire Central Carolina Writers’ Workshop burst into nervous laughter.
I looked up from the short sketch I’d been reading from and turned to face my questioner. Jerry Brower sat at the end of the table, down past a gauntlet of laughing faces. He, at least, wasn’t laughing, and for that I was silently, desperately grateful. I nodded to him, slowly.
He nodded back. The laughter stopped.
Hands clutch brown water.
Eyes and ears and tongues bob lazily in their containers.
Testicles lie shriveled against cold glass.
I have seen these things many times in many ways.
Read by Ben Phillips.
I swallowed. I didn’t want this to happen. I knew the game. Bag Man always called the cops and gave them a code. He gave that same code to the victim. Even after two years of killings, the fucking cranks were still calling 9-1-1, claiming the Bag Man had called them and that they needed protection. His codes solved that problem. He was a damn courteous kid.
Thing was, the codes became more of a warning to the cops than a way to separate out the sick, attention-starved loonies. The cops wanted to confirm Bag Man’s targets — not so they could stop him, but so they could stay the hell out of his way.