For more, please see Flapperhouse. This is a new June release, so I am only publishing an excerpt out of the huge heart-drumming respect I have for Flapperhouse and its brilliant editors, especially Joe O'Brien, who took on Polaroid, a sordid but fragile piece of prose, for which I am ever deeply thankful.
Scott does not want to see what is happening next to Marianne. She is not a woman or a bush but a cow at the slaughter. Her blood spills everywhere. It doesn't matter that she has been happily grass-fed. Lightning fast game processing: her body is being processed in under fifteen minutes. A tall blonde-haired man is sharpening his knives above her. She is a slab of meat on a table. There is a savagely skillful art to the swishing stabbing movements the man makes, cutting hard and fast into her body. She looks like a red closet waiting to be opened. A hook is flung deep into the flesh to secure the cuts being made on the other side of Marianne. Slash and rip. It is already dead. Marianne is dead. He can smell her, and she does not smell like lilacs.