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Quote by Craig D. Lounsbrough

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Craig D. Lounsbrough

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“Roscoe had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He awoke to find persistent itching on his stomach. He scratched it through his T-shirt. He went back to sleep. But dreams kept him from sleeping soundly. That and the itching. He woke again and felt the itchy spot. There was a lump there. Like a swelling. And when he held still and pressed his fingers against the spot he could feel something moving under the skin. The small room was suddenly very cold. Roscoe shivered. He went to the window hoping for light. There was a moon but the light was faint. Roscoe pulled his shirt over his head. He looked down at the spot on his stomach. It was moving. The flesh itself. He could feel it under his fingertips. Like something poking back at him. But he couldn’t feel it from the inside, couldn’t feel it in his stomach. And he realized that his entire body was numb. He could feel with his fingertips but not the skin of his stomach— The skin split! “Ahhhh!” He was touching it as it split, and he shrieked in terror and something pushed its way out through a bloodless hole. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, no no no no!” Roscoe screamed and leaped for the door. His hand clawed at the knob as he babbled and wept and the door was locked, locked, oh, God, no, they had locked him in. He banged at the door, but it was the middle of the night. Who would hear him in the empty town hall? “Hey! Hey! Is anyone there? Help me. Help me. Please, please, someone help me!” He banged and the thing in his belly stuck out half an inch. He was scared to look at it. But he did and he screamed again because it was a mouth now, a gnashing insect mouth full of parts like no normal mouth. Hooked, wicked mandibles clicked. It was inside him, chewing its way out. Hatching from him. “Help me, help me, don’t leave me here like this!” But who would hear him? Sinder? No. Not anymore. That was over. All over. And he was alone and friendless. No one even to hear as he screamed and begged. The window. He grabbed the pillow from his bed and pushed it against the glass and then punched it hard. The pane shattered. He took off his shoe and smashed at the starred glass until most of it fell tinkling to the street below. Then he screamed for help. Screamed into the Perdido Beach night air. No answer. “Help me! Please, please, oh, God, please help me! You can’t just leave me locked up!” But still, no answer. Fear took hold of him, deep crazy-making fear. No. No. No no no no, this couldn’t be happening. He hadn’t done anything to hurt anyone, he hadn’t done anything awful. Why? Why was this happening to him? Roscoe fell to his knees and begged God. God, please, no, no, no, I didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t brave or strong but I wasn’t bad, either. Not like this, please, God, no no no, not like this. Roscoe felt an itching in the middle of his back. He sat down and cried.”

EatingHelp MeScreamPanicCriedBugsParasitesNoBeggedRoscoe
Book:Plague
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“When I cried, he cried with me, When I was doubtful, he believed in me, When I did well, he cheered me on, When I messed up, he told me I was wrong, Every now and then when I went against his will, He punished me, but he praised me still He taught me how to forgive, even when I was right, He never like war, he was never one to fight, I’ll always be a daddy’s girl, I have the best daddy in the whole wide world.”

CriedForgiveDoubtfulBelievedDaddy S GirlPunishedPraisedCheeredWhole Wide World
Author:Charmaine J Forde
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“For the city, his city, stood unchanging on the edge of time: the same burning dry city of his nocturnal terrors and the solitary pleasures of puberty, where flowers rusted and salt corroded, where nothing had happened for four centuries except a slow aging among withered laurels and putrefying swamps. In winter sudden devastating downpours flooded the latrines and turned the streets into sickening bogs. In summer an invisible dust as harsh as red-hot chalk was blown into even the best-protected corners of the imagination by mad winds that took the roofs off the houses and carried away children through the air.”

Hometown
Book:Love in the Time of Cholera
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“Hope is a grand thing, and having heroes is essential to human aspiration. That is part of why I tell these stories. That said, you do need to learn to separate the story—and what it has done to you—from the individual who prompted it. Art—and all stories are art, even the ones about real people—is about what it does to you. The true hero is the one in your mind, the representation of an ideal that makes you a better person. The individual who inspired it, well, they’re like the book on the table or the art on the wall. A vessel. A syringe full of transformational aspiration. Don’t force people to live up to your dreams of who they might be.”

ArtLife LessonsHopeAspirationArt And ArtistsFallen Heroes
Book:Yumi and the Nightmare Painter
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