Refractions
A series of short pieces by Clarke Nova
Screams issue from the offices of section 4B4, home of the
ultimate answer to the anti-Semite's dream. Kidnap and trial, death by hanging - ashes
scattered beyond the five mile zone, leave a state untainted by murderer's blood. Glass
cage houses a killer from the stray bullet of an unknown assassin, ready for the noose.
Brunette turned peroxide blonde, name changed to suggest more suggestive, pout and smile,
all time hides the past of orphanages, possessive husbands, bruising rape, the stray hands
of a democratic dynasty. Happy Birthday John - and Bob - hope it all was worth it. Life
ebbs away in a blur of goof-balls and scotch, last sobs gasped out in the bedroom - found
naked. Ruled suicide - but did you jump, or were you pushed to it - media, fame, or just
the shit from the past come back to haunt you? Norma - in death you have achieved a kind
of fame that the living cannot. No growing old, no face wrinkling, no hint of surgery, no
gutter press to thrust microphones like obscene cocks before you, ask inane and pointless
questions to draw a response (for careful editing - God forbid that the public see or hear
the naked truth!).
Unshaved, hair greasy from exercise, large tumbler of Hiram Walker before him, he sits and
pounds out a diatribe of hate on an old manual. Lights dimmed, makes it more innaresin for
the leap and flash of the keys, dart out like fish from a school, leave a gray letter in
their wake - proof of their passage, so to speak. No longer doodling in hebephrenic
shorthand - just the words which comes to hand - or to finger, as may be the case. Truly
unhappy as to the turn of the cards - aces and eights, foretells doom of one sort or
another. Words plucked like teeth - ripped from the bare root, and exposed to the harsh
light, for judgement. Last judgement - this should separate the sheep from the goats.
Sit on the left - a place of trust....
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