Joseph Morton
Stories (2/0)
The Sharp Intake of Breath
"I know this chick she lives down on Melrose. She ain't satisfied without some pain." I grew up in an Allman Brothers song, making peanut butter sandwiches using butter knives blackened by hash oil. Every Saturday morning, I'd trip over an assortment of "aunts" and "uncles" who drank until they passed out on the floor, and nobody bothered to move them. I'd come home from school some Friday nights and know the night's agenda by the line of motorcycles and vintage cars hoarding both sides of my humble little street. Most of my decisions about drugs were made long before they could infiltrate my life, mostly by watching my "aunts" and "uncles" act the fool. I got my first tattoo at eight. To suggest that my upbringing was unconventional is such an understatement as to approach absurdity.
By Joseph Morton6 years ago in Filthy
Homecoming
Crissy revealed herself to me first as a mirage. I saw her first as I'd always known her; that slight, black-clad, sullen little girl with her black hair pulled taut in a ponytail, and that blended in to who she was now. She still had the same facial structure and her hair was still midnight black, but she was older now. No Sepultura T-shirt and ripped jeans tonight. Instead, she wore a black blouse, knee high skirt, and fishnet stockings, and her hair was down, loose, and flowing over her shoulders, hiding the Egyptian ankh hovering around her collarbones. It took me a second to see what she'd been reading when I came in, but I frowned nonetheless. I'd never heard of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, and I had only the most basic idea of what an archipelago was, let alone a gulag.
By Joseph Morton6 years ago in Humans