by Peter Schwartz
Boom, the world! I'm conscious, way-too-fucking conscious because some dog's tearing the living shit out of my foot and I'm under something that must be a porch. God I'm a fuckup; I'm sweating rivers, there's dogshit in my hair and puke on my clothes, ha! So I need to get the hell out of this scene pronto, so I put on my rocket boosters, kick the dog so hard he yelps, wiggle out from underneath what sure enough is a small, cheap-ass porch and run like this is the Olympics and not just another god-damned, broken-down trailer park. I need meth, pot, liquor, speed, coke, H, and all of the above but first I need money. Got any?
Peter Schwartz studied Advanced Fiction Writing with Rick Moody at SUNY Purchase. Since that time he has published stories in such journals as Pindeldyboz, Johnny America, and The Dublin Quarterly. His deepest wish is to simply live a life of beginnings.