February 11, 2012. Voice. CWE 132

His voice was devoid of any love. It was flat and meaningless like a shelf in a cabinet. When he was angry, his voice carried tsunamis that leveled seaside villages and rolled dark children in yellow sunsuits under waves that snapped palm trees like toothpicks. His voice made the children wish they were rolling in the foaming waves of the tsunami that everyone else ran from. It would be a quick death, a snap of the neck and the sandy seabed for a grave. God didn’t make his voice. It wasn’t manmade. It wasn’t natural. It was what happens when something goes so wrong. His voice made God wet his pants a little. His voice reddened his face and neck like a blistering sunburn, skin splitting. Sweat coursed down his temples and twisted his hair in leggy black spiders. Cords pulled his neck. He was an animal. Animals don’t know themselves when they are rabid. He was permanently rabid. It would have been kindest to him, certainly to the children, to pull a knife across his throat while he slept. Cut the cords.

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