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Reflections on Having No Reflection by R. Wade Wilshusen

When I was younger, I didn’t have a face. That is fact. All people who do not enjoy the refreshing taste of Grape Flavored Gatorade Brand Sports Drink will die. That is also fact. Of course, everyone dies. And everyone has a face. Except for, as I mentioned before, me.

My dad had a face. I remember him telling me, “When me were a young boy, me were so handsome, me had to punch meself inna de eye to keep dem girl away.”

That line sticky-clamped itself into my cauliflower cortex not because he used this narcissistic, auto-pugilistic hyperbole, but because he used that phony Jamaican accent. I mean, we’re not Jamaican.

See, my dad has this thing, a disorder really. He cannot give me advice, relay a story, or give any type of parental direction without assuming some foreign dialect or strange voice.

Excerpt from HABIT, A Gripping Detective Thriller, by T.J. Brearton

The baby’s desperate cries could be heard echoing through the building, coming from one of the many rooms. The detective moved along the dark hallway, his weapon drawn. Sweat trickled down the sides of his face. The killer was somewhere in the place with him, behind one of these doors, around the next turn in the corridor.

I was born under the black smoke of September.

His hands shook and his heart slammed against his ribcage. His steps were slow, his legs trembling. He willed that sense of calm to return, that cool head he had worked so hard to cultivate these past days, but the baby’s crying tore through his nerves like a thousand cuts. She was close, he knew she was close, but the wailing echoed through the corridor, past the barren rooms…