Dorange
March 31, 2011, by Homme de Sept-Îles
The driver dropped us at Derrange road. Except he pronounced it differently. He said it like an old time surgeon might say syringe where the second syllable rhymed with orange.
Where the night sky is black with brooding orange tufts and the windows are sucked of mercy and the limited houses are brick and brack for miles and miles but nobody but a moan lives in them. And you’re sure of it.
“What people are upset in this room is that I guess he drove the elbow through the head with an intent to injure kind of thing,” Cammalleri said. “I don’t think Chara premeditated this, but from experience when a player gets under your skin for whatever reason, you remember it and you notice when he’s out there. You know whom you’re playing against. Especially a divisional opponent because you’re so familiar. You can almost tell by the movements of a player. There’s a lot of tells, from what brand of stick they’re using to how they tape it.”
My (muse) shriek abandoned me; my shriek is like a pet, not really a scream, more a small hooded ghost.
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