“not that there’s much of anything left except all my impossible, obscene questions”

in the vein of Hubert Selby, Jr., and Louis-Ferdinand Céline, scenes from the unsettling & guilt-ridden demi-monde of Joshua Mohr’s Termite Parade (Two Dollar Radio, 2010) . . .

MEET MIRED

There were days I felt like the bastard daughter of a ménage a trois between Fyodor Dostoevsky, Sylvia Plath, and Eeyore.

Days pungent with disappointment.

Days soiled and hoarding blame.

Allow me to offer some evidence: about 5 a.m. on the morning after my last birthday, I was on my knees in front of the toilet, leaning over it and looking down at the water, waiting to throw up again. I stared at my reflection and could see myself so clearly. My life in the toilet. I was right where I belonged.

MEET DEREK

I tried to make another whiskey on the rocks but there weren’t any ice cubes left in the lousy freezer. Not that there’s much of anything left except all my impossible, obscene questions: what’s the difference between lying to yourself and being redeemed, what if they’re identical, like me and my twin brother, Frank, what if they look exactly alike but are completely different monsters?

But here was one I could answer because while there weren’t any ice cubes, there was a sack of frozen peas. So do I make a “whiskey on the peas”? Had I turned into that kind of person?

After the riot that had happened between Mired and me, the answer was easy, tearing open the bag and clutching a handful of green ice.