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Holly Wilson
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“No one now will ever fuck with me! I’m the ghost-friended badass who snuck into Mombie’s dressing room, I’m a preteen hellion who emits her own scent : the awesome stink of a girl who bites, the blood-muddied funk of the bramble cats! In Grandpa Hack’s Horror Mirrors each mirror shows you killed a different way, but no matter the mirror, no matter the wound, no matter stabbed all over, tractor-crushed, or drowned, I look wild and dirty always, a dirt bike gang’s kitten. Someone waiting to sink rabies into the steak of your neck.”
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“For forty -five minutes I let my brain shuffle, the outside-sitting riffling thoughts and memories loose. At first it’s the basics : Jeanie, you bitch, how I fucking hate you, you’re not as badass as you think you are; dead Mom, what will I even say to you when I necromance you? And where the fuck has your ghost even been? Also, should I major in theater when I go to community college? Do you think I look like you?”
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“One time before the fire when Dad was still blind he thought when I came down the basement stairs I was Randy the mute plumber. He said Randy, it’s one of those days I’d kill for some blow. That plus the three-ring binder of X-rated cake photos under his bed is how I know we haven’t always been holy rollers.”
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