When the killing's done

When the killing's done


T. Coraghessan Boyle





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Now she knew what it was like to go without, to fell the talons clawing at your throat, the tongue furred and bloating in the tomb of your mouth, barely able to swallow, to breathe. There was ice in the chest - and beer, chilled beer, the bottles clinking and chirping with the rhythm of the waves - but she didn’t dare crack the lid, even for an instant. It was the air inside that kept her afloat and if she lifted the lid the air would rush out and where would she be then? The bottles clinked.
Her throat swelled. The sun beat at her face. But this was a special brand of torture, reserved just for her, worse than anything devised by the most sadistic Jap commandant […].

Ritratto di Staff

Ciao Giulio, sei nella finale di marzo, 10righe scelte dalla redazione.