Cronic: Empty voice

I long for the sound of sirens and gunshots, police amplifiers and squealing tires. I have stopped caring, and yet I care enough to continue. I remain inert and yet I am desperate to run, to hide, to hunt for any vestiges of normality. I am pinned, I am glued, I am molded into the shape of this car seat, watching the miles fade away like optical illusions in a haunted carnival maze. The miles stretch out like gruesome arms, pulling me – pulling us both – into the maw of an open-mouthed horizon.

I have become so weak, so weak-willed, that I have surrendered to his miles, and yet I want to bludgeon anyone who gets in our way. I feel this inequitable anger and disgust for those miles past, this thirst to survive, and yet there is nothing to make it seem noble or even worthy. I have become an empty voice, hollow and fleshless. I want to be what Cronic was before his damnation, burrow into myself and shut down the lights and hear the purring in a dark, dark room.


Excerpt from Cronic — coming soon.

Published by

Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

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