Krispy Kreme Fan Fiction


The enlightenment does not phone first. It does not RSVP, it does not make it’s call Saturday casual. No. That old draft bolts out from the essence, bastard and urgent. Once the enlightenment has chosen it’s vessel, routine and control shrink from the blessed into a hazy yesterwhen, before singular obsession held rein.
Sometimes the enlightenment arrives a sacred charge imparted by the neighbor’s Doberman, one hot New York summer. Sometimes it is the imminent ring of a dread red phone, hotline to the world’s reset switch. Sometimes it is the pink beam refracting off of a religious pendant hanging from the neck of the delivery woman. Sometimes it’s a wild brier ablaze high upon Sinai. For Michael McCormick the enlightenment was a white rapper from the rust belt. Where the confluence of the Algonquin and the Alegheny formed the mighty Ohio, a beacon was shining. The enlightenment had chosen Michael McCormick and his Alabama home would soon lose a prophet to the call. Woe to them and so on.

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