A cop informed me that my son was both homosexual and dead. Shot at a bar he had apparently haunted. “Will you accept the body?” the cop asked. A thousand bats’ wings pulsed inside me before I said "No."
A creepy microstory for late October
Poets pine for my touch. Choreographers claim that I am a walk in the woods. Musicians mistake their soulmates for me. Fools. I am that green-aproned siren in the café down the street; I am that tendril of steam rising from the mug she holds.
“Repeat it,” Brian, the seventh-grade DM, says, holding a cigarette lighter directly under my fist. “I can’t play until I’m 14.” “So stop asking.” His grip releases and I shake the pinpricks from my fingertips. “Now hand it over.” I pull a folder crammed with notebook paper from my backpack. Brian yanks out a character …
I hear the satisfying plop of wet clay and then the wheel spins and spins. Each hand curves, pushes, and smooths, lifts new life from a formless muck. The past cakes underneath my fingernails; the future, slick with glaze, blazes in the kiln. I wait to greet the freshest phoenix.
He traced my name into my chest after he heard it, the e blazing across my ribs like a comet. On the dance floor, he grabbed my hips and kissed me. "What's that for?" I asked. "For the stars in your eyes."
a woman found an aniseed among some withered recipes inside: recumbent fantasies Of gray days swelled with ecstasy
The War was over, but we didn't know it yet. We threw bio-grenades into schools, blasted blindly into sick bays, screaming, panting, until word came through the ansible, but we are not posthuman. We return home with the rage still in our throats, our eyes searchlights.
I still feel that humid night on me. Back then our apartment perched above the sidewalk like a vulture; my head perched above my heart like a parrot. Just before you wedged that stupid laundry basket you use as a suitcase out the back door, you told me to stop messing with the frays of things, and I spent I don't …
Alone in the cellar and without smokes, Mariusz builds sculptures from his collection of broken clocks. Soon a twitching army of snuffling pigs and pecking chickens surround him. The whirr of their oiled gears almost blocks out the blasts of bombs above. (photo credit: Matt Katzenberger on flickr)