The standard boy from Menton, California's suburban baby-mill is surly, smells like cloves. Time spent in mile high Escalades gives the little shits a swagger from birth. When he walks in, I can hear those irregular steps come through my trailer like John Wayne raking my carpet with brand-new Sketchers, tag flapping when he puts his feet up on my coffee table.

"So, like, where do you get it?" he asks me. Does it every time, like he's channeling his brother's cop genes. The fact that he didn't knock really gets to me this time, that smirking it's not like the peephole is gunna tell you nothin really boils it for me, and I get pissy, even though I need the money.

"Government sends it with my SSI check," I say. "Research. You know how people smoke to deal with Glaucoma? Well, they figure if I breathe it twenty-four-seven maybe I'll grow my eyes back." I let him have a microsecond grin because people always seem shocked when they find out I have facial expressions. He whistles.

"So, like, why are you selling it? Don't you want a new pair of eyes?" He says it all cool, like he's buying it. Thinks my smile means blind-boy-is-a-trooper.

Any Takers?

Personally, I kind of like the modernist first-person-present-tense style. I think, used correctly, it can help to suck the reader in. I wrote "Blind Spot" this way partially as a response to that post, so I'm glad you "just noticed." Otherwise, you might not have read it, and I appreciated your comments greatly. Only you and my wife spotted the timing issue. I'd like to see what else you have to say.

Actually, someone (I will not name names) compared this particular piece of mine to your writing specifically, so that adds an extra dimension of interest to things for me.

Sent it. Can't wait. Any other takers? I'm waiting for at least 6 or so total reviews. (To get a cross section of reader-reaction.)

~MR

I'll get it to you, though.