Vignettes Regarding the Artwork of Brendon Kotes
Fire hung in the air. The rubbery kind that tasted of oil and street-races and midnight hours.
Yet it was midday. The sun poured in brightly, flashing against the Mercedes and BMW in the garage. A smoke lingered in the air, just grey enough to be visible.
Brendon caught a flash of blue as the Mustang turned the corner down the street, taking Casey far, far away.
Robbie shouted. And shouted. But from a distance. From a distance that crawled further and further away. Into a dreamland. Into a state Brendon wasn’t sure existed, yet there he was, dwelling in it.
Crumbled against the wall, below where the bikes still hung, lay Dylan. A mass of maroon and limpness. A mess of limbs and brokenness. A lump of death, but Brendon didn’t know in that awful moment.
All he knew was Robbie shouting. All he knew was Casey running. All he knew was the phone in the Westerman’s house was black and cordless and its buttons slipped under his fingers as he pressed them and stuttered into the void so that help might come and fix a horrible mistake…that didn’t look much like a mistake.
Next Chapter Coming September 29th