Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
It was the punchline to a hideous campfire story from my childhood. A depraved lunatic escapes from the asylum on a dark and stormy slumber party night. The panicked teens, home alone, hide in an upstairs bedroom. After the brave one among them heads downstairs to see if the coast is clear, the others listen through the door for a hopeful sign of safety.
Through the door they hear a rustling, then a faint pattern of noise:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
The mystery noise grows clearer and closer:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
The frantic teens argue over what the noise could be. Driven by maddening fear, the hysterical one among them flings open the bedroom door. As they peer down the darkened hall, they see the brave one approaching. Her arms are severed at the elbows, her legs cut off at the knees. As she crawls to warn her friends, her freshly stumped arms echo: thump, thump. She pulls her gruesome torso forward with a long, slow drag.
Days after the war in Iraq began, a photograph appeared on the front page of several national newspapers. It was that of a ten year old boy whose arms and legs had been severed in the U.S. invasion. No more arms, no more legs for this ten year old boy; just bandaged stumps and the memory of his parents who died in front of him. The boy was anguished and screaming, twisted in agony on a hospital bed.
I heard those long-forgotten sounds in my sleep the other night:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
In my dream, I knew it was the ten year old boy before I opened the door:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
He didn't come to warn me or haunt me. He simply wanted to be fed. He wanted me to change his shit-filled diaper and feed him and hold him like his dead parents did before their heads exploded like melons right before his eyes.
And now, I send him to you. I send him to your dreams, bloodied bandages over sloppily sewn stumps. Now it's your turn to change his diaper, your turn to feed him, your turn to hold him like his dead parents did before their heads exploded like melons right before his eyes.
Thump, thump, drag, all you fuckers who voted for George Bush.
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
It was the punchline to a hideous campfire story from my childhood. A depraved lunatic escapes from the asylum on a dark and stormy slumber party night. The panicked teens, home alone, hide in an upstairs bedroom. After the brave one among them heads downstairs to see if the coast is clear, the others listen through the door for a hopeful sign of safety.
Through the door they hear a rustling, then a faint pattern of noise:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
The mystery noise grows clearer and closer:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
The frantic teens argue over what the noise could be. Driven by maddening fear, the hysterical one among them flings open the bedroom door. As they peer down the darkened hall, they see the brave one approaching. Her arms are severed at the elbows, her legs cut off at the knees. As she crawls to warn her friends, her freshly stumped arms echo: thump, thump. She pulls her gruesome torso forward with a long, slow drag.
Days after the war in Iraq began, a photograph appeared on the front page of several national newspapers. It was that of a ten year old boy whose arms and legs had been severed in the U.S. invasion. No more arms, no more legs for this ten year old boy; just bandaged stumps and the memory of his parents who died in front of him. The boy was anguished and screaming, twisted in agony on a hospital bed.
I heard those long-forgotten sounds in my sleep the other night:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
In my dream, I knew it was the ten year old boy before I opened the door:
Thump, thump, drag.
Thump, thump, drag.
He didn't come to warn me or haunt me. He simply wanted to be fed. He wanted me to change his shit-filled diaper and feed him and hold him like his dead parents did before their heads exploded like melons right before his eyes.
And now, I send him to you. I send him to your dreams, bloodied bandages over sloppily sewn stumps. Now it's your turn to change his diaper, your turn to feed him, your turn to hold him like his dead parents did before their heads exploded like melons right before his eyes.
Thump, thump, drag, all you fuckers who voted for George Bush.
Thump, thump, drag.