The Ghouls' Review Spring 2015 - Page 22

The Jonez Susan Shuman Shelly’s sick. Her nose starts to run and bleed. Crackling leaves fall out of the trees and spread a carpet of scratchy brown over her world. She hugs and rocks herself; staring down at the street that mocks her. A battered street sign wobbles, ignored. Cars run through it and punks throw rocks in its face. The sight leaves her numb: Shelley is the brown dented sign. And paranoia begins to spread. Flinching beneath her bed spread she tries to forget about street life; but a trembling finger traces the brown bloodstain on her pillow. Her senses run wild. Hearing the scrape of leaves outside evokes the grinding of rocks into powder. Salivating, she rocks it hard and shivers; tasting the spread of wailing madness. Dead leaves scrawl her name on the street. Her best pair of stockings has a run in each leg, but her five-inch brown stilettos are brand new. Her brown shiny hair swirls to her waist. And she rocks across the asphalt feeling the run in her stocking spread further with each strut. Street life agrees with her tonight. Damp leaves cling to one spiked heel as she leaves her corner with some john in a brown Chrysler. An hour and the street is forgotten as she shaves rocks into lines of powder. The euphoric spread dares her imagination to run beyond itself; shrieking wild through leaves aflame with psychosis. Arms spread like brown broken branches, she soars toward the rocks in the street. 22 The Ghouls’ Review