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Monday, 31 January 2011 18:43

Rain

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Those tiny black ants, sugar ants she calls them, climb from the floorboard up onto the seat. They swarm all over the red raspberry Tootsie Pop on the cheap fabric of the bench seat. Still wet from my spit, it shines a little through the seething mass of little bodies.

Rain beats down everywhere, relentless. So hard it tears at the the flowers scattered around the roadside.

Leaning over to pick up the stick end of the candy sends shooting pain all through my midsection and up to my chest. The muscles tense, and breath catches. This is the exact opposite of an orgasm.

Out the window, the windshield, the rain is so thick only shapes and colors make it through. The world behind a waterfall.

From behind the water, from inside the truck, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, in all the rain, I scream. Propped against my elbow, fingers lifting my wet shirt, stuck and scabbing to the skin. Under the coagulating folds, and between the two unbuttoned pieces of flannel, down my jeans and the fabric bench seats, all of it dark with blood.




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Charles King

Charles King breathes in Portland, Oregon. He is also a photographer and activist within the disabled community there.

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