EIGHTEEN - randall brown

We lingered on the forest’s green velvet underground, before the pregnancy, the abortion, the desperate phone call eighteen years later about her miscarriage after miscarriage, how she knew there’d be a price, a lasting curse. That night, we had skipped work in the factory picking tiny parts to ship in unlabeled boxes to parts unknown. In that forest, still tripping because the Grateful Dead had come to City Island of all places, we fucked against a tree. I couldn’t make out forms, only a blur of colors. The acid had done something to my stomach, twisted; for months later, I’d only be able to eat carrots and blue cheese dressing. That night, a swirl of reds and yellows, autumn leaves, the Dead, her love, things that couldn’t keep.


Randall Brown
Doctor Sleep
Stephen King