I feel perfect when I create a new work. I enjoy seeking the person, examining the way she walks; the nuances in her movements, her petty asides to friends. I am not concerned about her facial features. I will not use her head.
What interests me most;Â enthralls me, excites me, is what is beneath her skin.Those marvellous organs, designed just for me, for my art.
I have my notebook (more. . .)
“Hands up, this is a stick up!” the balaclava clad man said as he menaced the store clerk with a gun. The store clerk eyed him with amusement, rolling his eyes.
“Oh, man, you gotta be kidding, with that pea-shooter?” the clerk laughed, “Fer goodness sake, my son’s got a bigger pea shooter than that just for the toilet! Get Outa Here!” the clerk turned away, resuming his checking of (more. . .)
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Filed under: death, fiction, guns, robbery, violence
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