Colette Reed on Horror Movie Summer
Summer something to miss when it’s over. When the bad thing happens. No beautiful wife hanging ghostly curtains, just people with shitty haircuts and bugs landing on our shoulders in the creek and the sky looking like that, so blue, blue like bluebells or your laughter. I dreamed someone would love me so much they’d avenge me, dreamed it for years. Like in the movies. That one summer I spent riding the train soaking wet in my towel and my tshirt, making phone calls in the almost morning, bugs chirping so beautifully all around me I almost couldn’t hear anything else. I used to think I would die so quiet that I could be certain no one knew me. Regretted already my future silence, the hot thrum of music, light like on a silver screen. Cold creek water and my infected eyebrow piercing and the stars from the roof of the car and a sharp knife of want. Knew I’d miss it. I thought for so many years it was too late for me, but it wasn’t. Isn’t that something?