Please welcome to HOOD’s literary sector, John Keilor. JK is a fiction writer who states, of himself,
This is my confession: Since I was twelve I’ve wanted to sing for Judas Priest. I want to wear singer Rob Halford’s black vest and wrist bands with the metal spikes on them and caterwaul at thousands of longhaired moshers while a great metal combo chugs along behind me like a Birmingham train as I declare, “If you think I’ll sit around as this world goes by/you’re thinking like a fool then ’cause it’s a case of do or die/out there is a fortune waiting to be had/you think I’ll let it go you’re mad you’ve got another thing coming.”
Enjoy! Lynn, dog, cat
For the survivors, the hammock implied power. Lucy lay in it so the men would hunt, not fight. Roy kept the fire going.
“Bet our Ruskie twins find something,” said Roy.
“Yesterday’s catch was a lifesaver,” Lucy replied, “like Hamid and Janine finding water.”
Alexi and Vlad arrived at the beach with a black man in shorts. Roy fetched Hamid.
“We’re on Samhah Island, in harm’s way,” Hamid translated. “He will return with assistance.” Everyone waited. A boat with men holding AK-47’s arrived after sundown. The twins were defiant but the kidnappers brought vodka. Their voyage to Africa was uneventful.
Who was I to become? The question pawed at me in our trailer all summer. Father enjoyed whisky. Wicked stepmother painted her sons in special colours so they became French. We laughed, for none of us understood zeese Frenchies. Our neighbour made a catapult for cats so they could experience weightlessness. It was a hot day, perfect for watching Whiskers soar overhead. I asked our neighbour what I would become. He lit his trailer on fire and the police came. Father and I watched the arrest as my step-brothers shouted, “Zut alors!” How we laughed, languishing in our trailer park.