Heart-Shaped Box

by Joe Hill

He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head; that maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places.

He clutched the ground and waited for the world to stop moving. Not that it ever would: that was one thing you found out when you were stoned, or wasted, or feverish, that the world was always turning, and that only a healthy mind could block out the sickening whirl of it.

‘Is there any part of you you won’t stick a pin in?’ She had them in her ears, her tongue, one nipple, her labia.

Her what now

lot of his songs, when they started out, sounded like old music. They arrived on his doorstep, wandering orphans, the lost children of large and venerable musical families. They came to him in the form of Tin Pan Alley singalongs, honkytonk blues, Dust Bowl plaints, lost Chuck Berry riffs. Jude dressed them in black and taught them to scream.

If Hell was anything, it was talk radio ... and family.

‘You know how people pay more money to buy furniture that’s been roughed up a little? Things that have been distressed? That’s because something that’s seen a little wear is just more interesting than something brand-new that hasn’t ever had a scuff on it.’