tgabrukiewicz

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She felt heavy in this new skin, but it was a good weight, a good feeling. Solid. Balanced, even. That she had snatched it on the train, late on a weeknight was even better. She’d simply dumped the gloopy innards down a tunnel and waited for the rats, their red eyes glimmering in the doom, to do the rest. Such a great skin, too, she thought. If only they’d last longer. This one was already showing signs of decay. “Oh, well,” she thought. “There’s more where that came from.” She reached for some foundation, to cover up the blotches. She first needed to feed, then she needed the luxury of new flesh.

wealth

If you hard it all, what would you do with it? He rode the bus to a place of business he hated, seething silent as menial tasks were completed for bosses who didn’t give a shit. He rode home to a place where shabby was a step up, cracked plaster and stains and roaches crawling the walls. On a mattress on the floor, he crossed his arms and laid his head in his palms, staring into the darkness, dreaming. Counting the hours. Making the anticipation that much more delicious. The Power Ball drawing was 348 days ago, the largest pot in the tri-state area. No one had yet come forward to claim the big check, the wealth. At 366 days, the ticket was worthless. A smile spread across his face. He still had time. Moments to savor his shitty lot in his current life. He looked at the Bible on the nightstand, licked his lips. His winning ticket was tucked in it, slid safely into Ecclesiastes.

trial

Courtrooms bored him. The polished wood, the uncomfortable chairs, all those motherfuckers constantly droning on. And the suit. Fuck sakes, the suit. The white shirt was itchy from the starch – it was just out of the plastic and he was sure there were still pins in it, and the necktie that fit like a noose. The trial had lasted most of one week and bled into the next. They gave him a haircut and a pad and a pencil, told him not to scowl. He instead drew pictures of scantily-clad women in compromising positions, until his “legal team” ripped the pad away and made faces of frustration at him. Finally, they called him to the stand. He’d been coached, oh how he’d been coached, but he figured these fine people in the box, the ones who sat in tow rows of elevated chairs, deserved to hear the truth. Especially since he had hunted in their ranks, and they needed to know that he wasn’t the only one who burned with the hunger to see their everythings consumed.

writing since 1969 · 61 entries · 60 days shown up

each square is a day—lit means ThomG showed up.

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on this day 16 years ago

ThomG wrote about lousy
“He whispers a silent prayer, hands clutched tight around the cold steel of the 6 train so his knuckles go white, and bows his head to hands. Lips still mumbling, he cracks an eye open. Then the other…”

the words ThomG reaches for

pastskinhandsfacefleshdidnhairwordsopendarknessheadsatanothergreweyestears