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Quote by Theresa Griffin Kennedy

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Murder & Scandal in Prohibition Portland: Sex, Vice Misdeeds in Mayor Baker's Reign

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Theresa Griffin Kennedy

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“Your knuckles hurt from knocking, so now you're slamming the side of your balled up fist on the wood door which rattles dangerously in its frame. You hope the neighbors can't hear as you beat on the door. It’s late, after midnight again, and recently, (you can't recall when) one of the neighbors complained about the noise. She stood outside the door as you lay on the living room floor and joined at the hip. She began yelling profanities through the thin wood. She was sick of listening to you two going at it all the time. You were a couple of “disgusting animals” in her estimation and she was going to call the police if you didn't keep it down from now on. You smile vaguely at the memory while your fist continues to pound the door. You recall how you both started coming simultaneously within only seconds of her banging on the door, how the startling intrusion made the pleasure even more thrilling, forbidden and intense.”

LoveSexDarkComedyTraumaChild Sex AbuseDomestic Noir
Book:Talionic Night in Portland: A Love Story
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“While you sleep, you are oppressed by dark meandering dreams. They’re characterized by an oppressive feeling of endless overcast shadow. The world is encased in dim blue darkness, and white ash is drifting everywhere. You find yourself in an abandoned tennis court that has gone to seed. The birds have stopped singing, the robins have disappeared and you become one of only thousands of people left. More than half of humanity has died of disease, pestilence, and military genocide. Fat golden rats scurry here and there among severed heads lying all around the tennis court in varying stages of putrid decay. As you walk out of the exit, you see piles of dead soldiers in rotting heaps, victims of mass poisoning by rebel civilians smart enough to fool them with Kool Aid on a hot day. Men, women and children lie everywhere, their empty bodies’ ravaged, their desiccated purple tongues, stick limbs and empty eye sockets all that’s left of them. They were the fortunate ones, shot through the head, the illiterate civilians whose organs were harvested for the criminal elite. The elite live high up in the hills with their armed guards inside abandoned mansions with no electricity or running water. Harvested as replacement organs for the sick or as dinner for those who used to enjoy beef liver, the elite are the only ones with handguns and rifles and everyone else is at their mercy hiding in the abandoned buildings all through downtown and the industrial area of NW Portland.”

LoveSexAbuseTraumaChild Sexual AbuseHealing The PastDomestic Noir
Book:Talionic Night in Portland: A Love Story
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“I was born in a dumpster, in an alley behind a dive bar. A wee speck of methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, baptized by saliva from a hospital orderly, clinging to a wedge of pizza crust. Honestly, I didn’t want to hurt anyone—certainly not the Norwegian rat who gobbled me with his yellowed fangs, feeding me a banquet of liquefied refuse. We’d both gotten a bad rap, MRSA and rats.”

HumorSexScience FictionHorror FictionBacteriaBacterium
Book:Rigor Morbid: Lest Ye Become
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