Twisted Fiction Press

Tag: Clint Eastwood

HELPLESS: Part 2

by on Jul.08, 2009, under Uncategorized

The moon rose on the second night and Turner was too tired to go on. He pulled into a motel off the highway and paid for a single room. He turned on the news. He watched the unemployed mother hailed as a working class hero and a spokesperson from the community organization that rallied around her. He read about the benefit concert planned to raise money to reattach the child’s arm using laser replantation surgery. Missy Higgins was on the line-up. And Eskimo Joe. Turner turned the TV off. He lay on top of the bed in the motel room listening to the highway and to the water drip in the bathroom. He slept until midnight and then he and Clint Eastwood were on the road again.

They took some side trips and passed through Albury at midnight of the following day. Turner kept driving west. He drove until he got to Glen Creek. His mother was up and watching TV and took no more notice of his arrival at dawn than she had of his departure ten years before. (continue reading…)

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HELPLESS: Part One

by on Jun.15, 2009, under Uncategorized

When Turner blinked in the park in the glare of the morning the hand was still there. It lay on the wood chips where Clint Eastwood had bitten it off at the wrist. The child stood staring at it and a bubble of spit rose and fell from her mouth with every breath. Turner shuffled to one side and glanced around him. The park was as empty as ever at this scant-shadowed time of day. Pale dry leaves lay scattered on the wood chips and the little hand could have been camouflaged among them but for the blood clinging brightly to the edge. He heard Clint Eastwood muttering in confusion at the edge of the playground.
He could see the mother. She was over by the gondola talking on the phone with her back to them. She was tall and very thin wearing black tights and a short jacket. Her knee-high boots had a crack in one heel. The park was empty apart from Turner standing by the seesaw and the child in her parka staring at her hand on the wood chips and the mother on the phone and Clint Eastwood licking the unfamiliar taste of human blood off his muzzle. (continue reading…)

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