•
Mori Kim Marr was seventeen years old, yes. And she was miserable and hopeless, yes. And she had choppy black hair and brown eyes, short snub of a nose that at the moment ran with snot and tears, etcetera, and Mori wore a black skirt that was too short, she wore soft black boots of faux-plaztam that were soaked up to her ankles—because she was incapable of avoiding the fucking puddles, apparently—and her bulky jacket was too big for her slight and undernourished frame…
Mori Kim Marr was a mess.
“Jesus,” she whispered. “Say something…”
Say something. Do anything.
•
“I’M HIDING OUT AT THE END OF THE WORLD.” Oh, get real. “Where the land ends and the Atlantic starts…” No, yawn. “Curling tiny tip of America, shuttered and abandoned Cape Cod, Provincetown, Massachusetts.” Ehh. “Dark streets, empty houses, tourists long gone, December.” Well, true. “Grey skies and sluggish ocean, it’s dead, it’s beautiful…” Oh, I think that’s enough. You get it. Ocean, end of December, ghost town.
I’ve bolted to shabbier holes in my time.
It’s a nice house. Rental. I didn’t pay for it! Kidding? Ha! I write this under a roof of a relative’s rental. Anyway, it’s lovely, and I am grateful for the shelter. (No, I’m not homeless.) A walk to the water, and spooky cottages set into the hills. But it could be Alcatraz, seriously, it could be a tent, and I’d be happy. After the… total catastrophic fucking train wreck that was the month of December 2009, I’m happy to have a change of goddamn scenery. It’s time to finish a last bit of business, it’s time to lower my head and pound the final nail in the coffin of Exit Vector.
Speak, Mori. Say something. Do Anything.
Ω
Exit Vector will conclude shortly at Underland Press.
