I Screamed, I Screamed
D. W. Wilson
W ith my free hand I pulled the blade out of my ass--I had hidden it up there only a little while ago, before I left the apartment for the office--and thrust it in my assailants direction, explaining to him with my exigently intense eyes as much as this gesture that he best think twice. Instead he clapped his hands together, started hopping up and down and laughing hysterically. For I had cut my ass wide open, presumably when I extracted the blade, and now it was bleeding terribly, no doubt terminally. It was a sad, pathetic display.
"Oh no," I said in a frank, forthright manner. Subsequently I fell to the asphalt of the alleyway with a fleshy thud that supervened the steel thud of my briefcase.
Lying there on my stomach, my vision--indeed my consciousness--began to flee from me. And in the cross-eyed haze I found myself worrying about my wallet, which I had also hidden up my ass, along with the keys to my apartment, office, car and bicycle lock--and suddenly I was extremely worried about being naked, too. Then I felt the hungry fingers probing deep inside of me and my worries ceased.
Possessed, I hissed and growled. I arched up my neck and clamped down my teeth. With a grunt I viciously tightened my sphincter and snapped off my assailant's hand at the wrist. Then I squirmed out of the alleyway and onto the bustling sidewalk, where men and women rhythmically marched back and forth, hurriedly side-stepping me like a worm or bug too big to stomp on, lest the soles of their feet be soiled to the bone with my colorful, electric entrails.
And I screamed, I screamed.



First published: August 1999
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