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(A short story of 4433 words)

Milk Crates For Fists


by Adam Glennon

A memoir piece told in the historical present about a drug fuelled night during the nineteen nineties.

Something’s not quite right tonight but I don’t know what it is.

The back bedroom’s packed with nine lads and three girls from school. The glass panels in the window frame are sweating like we are and the music’s pumping. A strobe light’s appeared from nowhere and it matches the beat from the Prodigy tune on the stereo.

You’re no good for me, I don’t need nobody, don’t need no one.

It’s Friday night and the party’s just getting started. I have no idea what time it is. I know it’s been a long week, we deserve this.

Crooked Teeth says to me, ‘These trips are fucking mint.’

‘I know,’ I say, straining an ear towards the door.

My buzz is being ruined by an annoying thought that something bad is going to happen. It’s not paranoia or anything. There’s a corner of my mind, a dark area that senses violence when it’s in the air. And it’s working overtime tonight...

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