Brock Says: I’ve begun a weekly writing exercise with another writer, in which we take turns sending each other a sentence and filling in the remainder of a short fiction of indeterminate length. This week, I took the lead.  The starting sentence:

My horse has cancer.

My horse has cancer. They say, “Cure cancer? We can, sir, if you turn on the funding faucet.” The spelling of faucet was different around the time of Farrah’s death. This is totally unrelated, but, do you think it’s disrespectful to jerk off with photos of deceased celebrities?

The fact is, we probably won’t cure it, and most certainly not in time to free my horse. We can cut it out, irradiate it, and fill her blood with bone marrow and hair follicle cell disintegrating chemicals to chase it away, but we’re really just helping it build a tolerance to come back stronger whenever it decides it wants to relapse. I’d say, “Cancer can go fuck itself,” but I’m afraid it might hear me. Continue reading My Horse Has Cancer