“Could I just stick a finger in?” Asked in a falsely high nasally voice, dripping in northern accent. I turn to look at her, and she just stares back at me, with her head tilted enquiringly, as if I could decide to say no.
Without a doubt, Tolkien’s classic, The Lord of the Rings, is possibly the most tedious triumph of the last hundred years. Tolkien himself described this as an ‘experiment’ in literature – whether one can create an entire world and all of its details – and it truly is impressive that it worked. That it’s a successful experiment does not necessitate that it’s successful literature.
Carefully pinched between forefinger and thumb, the girl holds and drops his shirt like a used condom. She treads over his trousers and her gummy thong to the bottom of the stairs, then tilts her head to hear better. There is nothing other than the grunts of the slut and the tosser, trying to become the glove and the hand, or the costume and the actor, or the host and it’s parasite. The girl imagines him climbing into her, scooping all of her away, and her becoming a vessel full of him.
She tries not to acknowledge the edge of fear in her mother’s pained groans.