ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
T. J. Harrison clearly has an over-active imagination and way too much time to fritter away. [June 2008]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (3) Chapter 54 (Short Stories) A convict contemplates his crime while awaiting the execution of his sentence. Warning: foul language. [978 words] The Corpulence (Short Stories) Two young, Jewish sisters run away to Hamilton, Ontario, while their parents vacation in Europe. [2,193 words] The Porcelein Angel (Novels) An angel, a daemon, and an addict, all teenagers, all redeemable and irredeemable in equal measure, are pitted one against the other. [2,225 words]
Stomp Tracy Jean Amelia Tj Harrison
In her youth, she had:
broken her mother's wrist;
brandished a rounded brush, smacked her mother's lip, and left a lasting scar;
bit her mother's thigh. The bruise extended from the knee to the pelvis as it healed. Her mother's then-stepfather observed, "Well, if you didn't hit her now, I don't know when you will." Her mother's face was ashen;
watched as the blood drained down into the hollow of her mother's cheekbone after she had levelled the television converter at her face; and
stomped on her mother's calf, just above the ankle bone, leaving two, perfect heel impressions.
But her mother, after all, was an alcoholic and deserved these things.
The lady at the emergency ward even said so after her mother had complained that her daughter had broken her ribs.
"Well, what did you say to her to upset her?" the ER lady demanded.
"I told her that she was a piece of shit after she kicked me."
"No wonder, then, that your daughter is upset."
Her mother left the ER after waiting eight hours for some intern to look at her. She went immediately to the local Shopper's Drug Mart and brought a tensor bandage and wrapped it just beneath her breasts. When it hurt to breath, her mother rationalized that the bandage was pretty much all they would do for her at the hospital, anyway.
And her father agreed too. Her mother, his wife, was, he noted, "A piece of shit," a "fuck up," "useless."
In his defence, he was as sick and tired of her mother's alcoholic binges as she was.
So, after a long while, her mother simply went away.
It was to a small town somewhere in Eastern Ontario, an utterly non-descript place where she could drink by herself as much as she pleased. She took a tiny apartment, not even a one-bedroom, and an unimportant job.
And, now, her daughter was at her step, banging on the door.
And her mother did not answer because there was no answer to give.
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