Cory B

by Horror Sleaze Trash on September 2, 2011

The author is uncomfortable talking about himself but what can be said objectively is that he lives in Northern California and has a dog.

A link to previously published fiction by Cory: More or more.

I grew up in an uninspired grid of suburban homes that borders acres of farm land. The rows of corn are shrinking everyday, the farmers getting bought out by real estate moguls, making room for more boring homes with more boring families. I often find comfort in the dilapidated, ram shackle house that has yet to succumb to the smooth talking Mr. Suit. It’s painted sky blue and even has a barn, or something that once was one.I never wondered who owned it until it was gone. I spent many hours of my youth smoking joints and rolling cigarettes in that house. The place often had visitors, but we only saw the aftermath, I wonder if they thought the same of us. Dirty mattresses, broken beer bottles, bras and crushed smokes, holes in the walls and broken windows. We contributed to the damage and often spray painted upside down crosses and highly detailed caricatures of giant dicks. The house never got better, only worse and worse and worse. Weeds grew near our hips and covered the outside. The mailbox had long been demolished. A for sale sign screeched at the hint of a breeze. We traded in the sanctuary of that house for our own shitty apartments and rented out rooms. It wasn’t as thrilling. Then, we got older and our adolescent crimes turned into real life shit. We became drug addicts, convicts, disenfranchised youth who weren’t so young anymore.

I can hear the sirens wailing from what I guess is a few miles away. I imagine the lumbering red trucks parting traffic and blasting through intersections. Eyes watching, hoping they don’t turn down their street, hoping it’s not their tragedy. Someone has set fire to the blue house. That run down piece of shit has finally been brought to the ground. I tell my mom it was probably some kids, blowing stuff up and laughing, getting high and then realizing the house is burning. Burning. I know this from experience. I think, I’m lucky it wasn’t me and my cohorts. I right it off and go back into my room to chop up a few pills and pass out. I am smoking a cigarette in the backyard, reading the newspaper in utter delight. That sounds morbid, more like great interest. On the front page is a deranged looking women, she is sitting in the backseat of a cop car, her head turned around, starring into the lens of the photographer with eyes filled to the brim with madness. The story that follows describes a normal enough response to a fire, but then things turn ugly when the men with the axes and helmets and yellow jumpsuits enter the house. They find two baby girls, skin tightly wrapped around their bones, smoldering, and dead dead dead dead. The detectives found their mother, the crazed women on the front page, standing in the barn trying to hang herself. She confessed to killing her children, then lighting the match to burn it all down. The town is mortified that such a monster had been in our midst. I am not so surprised.

I am walking across the street from the county jail to get a slice of pizza. I’m killing time before I can visit my friend who is serving a year for graffiti. Meanwhile a transit cop got two years for the murder of an unarmed, handcuffed black kid. Oakland is rioting. My insides are rioting and not from hunger. After the pizza I lit up a smoke and it’s almost time so I walk back to the waiting room and as usual, it’s full of women with tired smiles and you can’t help but want to help them, save them, but they won’t take your charity. I walk through the metal detector and imagine myself sticking the sheriff deputy, who is waving the wand around my body, with a large knife. Blood spatters my face and I reach and take his Glock out before he hits the floor. Light the room up. He motions me forward and now an elevator. Second floor. Doors open. There’s my friend. I sit down and pick up the phone, scratching my fingernail on the wood below the window because it’s hard to look him the eyes. We talk and talk and then he looks at me with surprise, like he just thought of something.
You know that bitch who killed her kids? He asks

Yeah. I say.

She is here, on my level. I talked to her today, bitch is crazy. Fucking weirdo. He says.

I say, Damn, that’s crazy.

But really, I am not so surprised.

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