It has been twelve weeks since I last throttled myself with classic fiction...
Okay, so the truth is a lot of classic fiction bores me, while most poetry makes me want to slit my wrists (or something less dramatic, but equally vehement).
However, there are writers in the contemporary world who I think aren't given their dues. They take my breath away with their ability to paint a picture with words. They evoke emotion and put me so firmly in their shoes that I feel like, just for a moment, we inhabit the same skin.
Here are brief snippets from two of them. (Ten points if you can name their pseudonyms without Google or clicking the links):
I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like. And right now it’s a steel knife in my windpipe. I can't breathe, but I still fight while I can fight. As long as the wrong feels right it's like I'm in flight - high off of love, drunk from my hate.
It's like I'm huffing paint and I love it.
The more that I suffer, I suffocate. And right before I’m about to drown she resuscitates me. She hates me and I love it.
Day after day, love turns grey like the skin of a dying man. Night after night, we pretend it’s all right. But I have grown older and you have grown colder and nothing is very much fun anymore.
I can feel one of my turns coming on. I feel cold as a razor blade, tight as a tourniquet, dry as a funeral drum.
Run to the bedroom! In the suitcase on the left you'll find my favorite axe. Don't look so frightened. This is just a passing phase - one of my bad days.
Would you like to watch T.V.? Or get between the sheets? Or contemplate the silent freeway? Would you like something to eat? Would you like to learn to fly?
Would you like to see me try?
Would you like to call the cops? Do you think it's time I stopped?
Why are you running away?
Your Turn: Wow me with a brief sample from someone you think goes unheralded as a fabulous writer in these days and times.