The Alleged Review wherein Ross Nervig reviews whatever he feels like reviewing.
This is nothing I need to describe to you, but I will anyways. The last of all the lights in your place is switched off. It’s morning. Maybe you’ve checked the knobs on the stove. I do that sometimes—maybe we all do. Perhaps the hairdo and countenance below receives one last appraisal. Perhaps a bag is slung over your shoulder. Perhaps you’ve already patted yourself down for the essentials: keys, wallet, cellphone. Variables on a routine. What’s paramount, is the momentum. The day has got to be faced, the engine is no longer idling. A series of scenes are projected on the theater outside the domicile. Your street, the dumpster squirrels, your car already warm with the morning sun, the morning music flowing from open windows, barely strained by screen. Cicadas, if it’s that time of year, that part of the country. There’s that wildly attractive barista with the lip piercing, boy or girl, whatever you prefer, taking his or her place behind the register. Your caffeine allotment may still even be in bean-form depending how long it takes you to reach the shop. You flip the deadbolt and CRACK! There’s a 3 or 4 inch view of the hallway of your apartment building. The chain is pure black against the light of the world you were about to enter. The moment is an oddly violent moment. Because it’s unimaginable that you—resident, renter, or owner—would be the villain causing the chain to stretch to full length and purpose, biting into the wood lip of the door, unsettling the screws in the molding. There’s a notion that is implicit, chillingly implicit, in this instance. This is supposed to be my last resort from the stalker, the killer, the pervert, the zombie! And whatever world you’re about to throw your poor self out into, that world’s lips curl into a smirk full of fangs.
Front page image by Ben+Sam.