Underground Voices, June 2011

Hey Dave Roswell

Now it’s dark.

Huddled in the shadows of a dusty corner, Dave Roswell sits. His heart pounding, gut bleeding, breath labored. He strains to see, unable to distinguish friend from foe, right from wrong. Dave Roswell is a dead man, this much he is sure of, and time is running out. He thinks of what he’s done, what he meant to do. Now, he’s on his own.

A newspaper keeps him warm. The headlines reaffirm what he knows: they’re looking for him, hunting him.

Just paranoia, he tells himself, reassures himself. He takes comfort in knowing his sanity exists in a conspiracy, in a way of life that involves his death. And death, while tragic, is ordinary. Except people will be thankful when he is dead…

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