Robert Brockway signs in San Diego

Here’s how The Unnoticables by Robert Brockway begins:

Unknown. Unnamed. I met my guardian angel today. She shot me in the face. I’m not much for metaphor. So when I say “guardian angel,” I don’t mean some girl with big eyes and swiveling hips who I put on a ridiculous pedestal. I mean that she was an otherworldly being assigned by some higher power to watch over me. And when I say “shot me in the face,” I don’t mean she “blew me away” or “took me by surprise.” I mean she manifested a hand of pure, brilliant white energy, pulled out an old weather-beaten Colt Navy revolver, and put a bullet through my left eyeball. I am not dead. I am something far, far worse than dead. Or at least I’m turning into it.

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