Written Tuesday, December 5th, 2006.

“Are you sure you’re doing it right?”

“Jesus, Terrance, yes. See…I’m pushin’ the button and since there’s no fire, it ain’t goin’ beep beep.”

All is quiet in the Thompson household two hours later. Terrrance sleeps with the television on. Mama Thomp sleeps with her arm in the crater where Papa Thomp slept when he was a free man. “Granbabes” sleeps face down in a crib that was found in a quiet alley, breaths coming further and further apart.

Meanwhile the fryer remains at 400 degrees. A bubble of oil pops and jumps onto the tablecloth. Simmer simmer…fake flowers eat up the heat and light the kitchen orange.

“Granbabes” didn’t smother from her face in the pillow but the black smoke that danced two inches above the floor. Papa Thomp never had a house or a family again.


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