A child of (maybe) nine, living on my street, lets me read his Dream Journal.
It's full of lies.
Lizard men and volcanoes, sharks battling amongst the stars - come off it kid.
Lightning swords cut swathes through Angel Wings. She sings. Blurry-eyed, the child sinks to the sidewalk and melts into the drain. Mother's tears mix with dust and rust the pipes. Rats give-up in the thousands.
A Man on a Horse going by the name of Desperado: hat tucked down, stained with oil, rises in his saddle to look over the concrete jungle. Old, the road, cracked and blistering; vapor escapes from its pockmarked face like a ghost.
Desperado extracts his rifle from its weather-beaten, leather scabbard. The horse shudders, bucks. Desperado goes down, the butt of the rifle strikes the hard earth, and the barrel explodes... a round enters Desperado's cheek, his eye melts against the heat of the blast. His brains are scrambled.
The child runs to its mother. Dinner time.
The Nasty Girls of the LPWA
15 hours ago