Hell of a Book

by Jason Mott

“It’s all just a runaway mule hell-bent on destruction.”

step off of the plane looking like a million euros and feeling like about two pesos.

They’re all staring blankly at the luggage carousel like a pack of Pavlov’s dogs, waiting for the buzzer to sound.

And since every moment has already passed by the time we’re able to actually register its existence, can a person ever truly be drunk?

And obsession is, by nature, a one-way street.

That’s what I call “Now-stalgia.” When you know a time in your life is gonna last forever, even before the moment is over.

Swing shift isn’t the cause of the old man’s death—cancer won that particular gold watch—but it contributes to the state of his life. The same way a grain of sand contributes to the existence of a beach.

“I’ll swear to whoever the fuck I want to,” Paul bellowed. “And if He don’t like it, tell Him to come down here and do something about it. And maybe while He’s here spanking me on my ass for taking His name in vain, the rest of you can ask Him where He was when Will got shot in his front yard by that damn cop.”

“I live three thousand miles away,” I say. “The sun is 93 million miles away,” she replies. “But you can still feel it on your face, can’t you?”