I Was a Teenage Slasher

by Stephen Graham Jones

But, really? It’s less about survival, more about who you’re holding when that big irradiated shockwave blows you to ash.

The world’s so much simpler when you’ve got a chainsaw in your hand, isn’t it? A chainsaw or a machete or an axe, that’s the elegant solution to every problem. And I wouldn’t get caught, either. My kind don’t.

Let me just say it again, for the back row: I don’t make any claims about being a good person.

I’m pretty sure he was staring at me. You recognize your own, I mean.

It’s six minutes of my life, tops, but some memories you don’t measure in minutes or miles, but by how much of yourself is still in that moment.

“It’s not your fault, though,” she said. “It’s not the dog’s fault it got rabies,” I said back. “But it’s still got to be put down, doesn’t it?”