nil heard
the phone rings.
the phone rings.
frau krueger shotputs into a sitting position. maybe an air raid? she shakes her head, re-attaches her woolen nightie, and saunters to the phone.
“frau krueger?”
“ya. wer ist das?”
“dave. is peter home?”
“oben. …schlaft.”
“dong him for me, wud ya.”
“moment.”
frau krueger lays down the phone and shuffles to a piece of twine dangling from a hole in the ceiling. she pulls on it, yanks on it, swears at it. finally, the rope breaks.
muttering something about sharing an outhouse with neighbors, she de-bolts die tur and pops her head into the stairwell. and screams.
“peeeetttttteeeeeeeeeerrrrr!” she screams, “die telefon. dave an der linii”
four walls and a floor, the third, and a bedroom. sleep crumpled in a brown polish bedspread on a leaky blue mattress. windows open, shutters drawn.
the air is still and the room is dark, save for the pale, yellowish glow from a freddy flintstone nitelight in the hall.
hanging helplessly in an icon above the bed, st. johannes contemplates the moral fl…