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| From September 2014 |
The riot had taken on a beauty of its own now. Arcs of gasoline under a crescent moon. Crimson tracer in mystical parabolas. Phosphorescence from the barrels of plastic bullet guns. A distant yelling like that of men below decks in a torpedoed prison ship. The scarlet whoosh of Molotovs intersecting with exacting surfaces. Helicopters everywhere: their spotlights finding one another like lovers in the Afterlife.
Beautiful start but these prose don't extend beyond the first paragraph. I was hoping to find my next James Lee Burke or Ray Bradbury. My search continues.
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