Chapter one here.
Chapter two here.
I can’t tell if the tiny monkeys are growing, or if the plus-sized models are shrinking. I don’t know why the Howling Girl didn’t plan ahead for the eventuality of her head bumping and plodding along the linoleum behind her as she makes her way to breakfast. She should bind a pillow to her skull.
All I know is that cloudy days at The Pinch Punch are the worst because TYRA has a spoiled child’s version of seasonal affective disorder.
The morning Pinch-Punches are gray and reek of regret and liquid foundation. A profound melancholy settles on the residents, and they half-heartedly smack around billiard balls, hoping that someone watched something interesting on TV the night before so the silence can be broken.
Epileptic seizures abound in the lobby. It is an Entry Day, and a charming new guest’s melodic timbre haywires synapses amongst residents. There is nothing like an epileptic seizure for bringing you down. People say the pants-pissing is the worst, but I say it is bleeding-tongue.
There is a collective unconscious wish for harmonicas and sunglasses. The lights flicker, hiss, and sink. The Howling Girl finally shuts up. Everyone’s got the sniffles; their sleeves crust with mucus, their eyes crust with sleep.