| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| ***BIO*** Sarah won the Fish Historical-Crime Contest with Fall River, August 1892. Her story, The Eyam Stones, was runner-up in the Historical Contest. Both stories will be published in the Fish anthology 2008. MO: Crimes of Practice, the new Crime Writers’ Association anthology, features Sarah's story, One Last Pick-Up. Her work has appeared in Literary Fever, Every Day Fiction, Ranfurly Review and Zygote in my Coffee. Website: http://sarah-crawl-space.blogspot.com/ |
 |
 |
| © 2008 zygoteinmycoffee Ink. |
| Home |
| Submit |
| The view from Alcatraz |
| by Sarah Hilary |
| Grace came out with some bull today: ‘Every window on Alcatraz has a view of San Francisco.’
I mean what the fuck? ‘This isn’t Alcatraz,’ I pointed out, for starters. ‘I’m just saying,’ she made herself smaller, the way she does when I poke at her, ‘at least we have the view. There’s a world out there.’ ‘Big world,’ I agreed. ‘Big fucking world scares the shit out of these women. It’s a lunatic asylum, in case you didn’t notice, you nut-job.’ I kicked my foot against the wall, watching her flinch. ‘And what about the poor bastards in San Francisco who get to look at Alcatraz every day? Think they see your silver lining in that cloud?’ * After meds, I go downstairs. Grace covers for me, wanting to make a good impression on the bad girl. I'm quick, sneaky. I look under the pipes, where I hide stuff. It gets hot there so I pull the sleeve of my sweater over my hand. Don’t want to get burned, today. I reach around until I find the shoebox. Snap a lighter at a cigarette and lift the things out, one by one. Why’d I take this junk? Because I could. I’ve got a bit of each of them if ever I need it. An angle, a screw. Girl’s got to have a screw. I suck at the cigarette and stare at the stolen bits of people. From Grace, a pair of knickers, unwashed. Kinky, huh? Kind of grey, with the elastic going in the leg. And funky. Really fucking funky. Most honest thing of hers I could find. A hair-slide of Tru’s, pretty. From back before the knives, when she let people see her face. From Doc Barling, a paperclip. I swear she’s got eyes in the back of her skull, staples stuff down in that phony fucking therapy suite of hers. Like her shit’s worth stealing. Jewellery from Susie’s room. Pearl earrings. Bracelets. A locket on a gold chain. Three guesses whose ugly mug’s inside. ‘Say cheese, Daddy!’ ‘Suck my dick, Susie!’ He’s in a red convertible, top down. Pervert asshole. It freaks me out, the jewellery. I mean, why’d she keep it? So she’d remember: ‘Daddy bought me this when I first learned to lick his balls real nice’? Crazy fucking bitch. I’d take the brooch with the longest bluntest pin and I’d make a kebab of Daddy Dearest's dick and balls. The bracelets are kind of cool though, nicer than any of my shit. Grace’s right: there’s a world out there, away from the loonies and the losers. Not sure I like the view, though. I spit out the cigarette and stub it into the floor. Then I shove the junk back into the box and push it under the pipes, adding a couple more burns to my collection. See, Susie? I got bracelets too. |
 |
| Sept. 2008 |
| 110 |