The Women of Fists and Bottles

by Amy Guth

Kinna walked through the trees in her nightgown for easily two hours before reaching the road. She didn’t much care about fingerprints or evidence or incarceration. In that moment, all she cared about was her dead husband, Eddie, wrapped in plastic, duct-taped, buried, covered in rocks and looking fucking pathetic as usual. She sat in the car and drew in a breath and let it slip out noisily and jagged. For less than a second, felt slightly remorseful, as they, the women of fists and bottles, are taught to feel. She laughed instead and quietly drove home in his car.

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Amy Guth, author of Eavesdropping Will Get Me Everywhere, has written about blaxploitation, Judaism, feminism, media literacy, bandwagonism, art, cult films, racism, hate crime and social irritants for all sorts of places like The Believer, Monkeybicycle, blah blah blah. She's toodling around at the moment promoting her novel Three Fallen Women and having a very nice time, thanks. She blogs Bigmouth Indeed Strikes Again. Come say hi.