Our flesh was joined, once.
Your blood was my blood. My blood was yours.
Curdled screams, purple arms. You entered, wailing, on a black tide of blood and guts. I inhaled your wet hair and clung onto you so tightly I thought you might burst.
But you didn’t. And my life was made.
Now by some cruel joke you stand before me, here in the depths of the underworld. My son! A living, breathing man, ruddy-cheeked and eyes shining. Your chest rises and falls. Blood pulses through your every sinew. Look how the ghosts clamour to catch a glimpse of you.…
...continue reading
I come from the home of a very great painter. In fact, I was painted by him and am a representation of him. I am what is called a self-portrait. And my painter is the distinguished and famous Rembrandt Van Rijn, who thought so much of himself that he called himself by only one name, Rembrandt.
In fact, you could say that since I am a self-portrait, I, too, am Rembrandt! At least I like to think of myself that way.
I have often wondered why I came into this world. Rembrandt, my creator, had gone through a lot in his life. He had used painting to study himself. He was a fine painter, perhaps the best in Amsterdam. But before he painted me, he had encountered many difficulties.…
...continue reading
Elsie sat at the table in the dining room where she was assailed by Polly, the manager of the nursing home where we lived. “You didn’t finish your beets,” Polly said. She was in her thirties, with hair of straw and a face lined beyond her years.
“I don’t want them,” Elsie said.
“But they’re so good,” Polly said, rubbing her stomach as if proof of their goodness.
“I said I don’t want them.”
“You must eat, dear, to keep up your strength.” Polly leaned in, near Elsie’s face, as if a familiar, family, an old friend, when she was none of the above.
“I don’t care,” Elsie said, and promptly overturned the saucer of beets. The juice ran down the table and dripped onto the threadbare carpet beneath.…
...continue reading
He was dead—that much was certain.
But, until the moment I stood over his coffin, the hushed murmuring of the mourners behind me, a part of me hadn’t believed it was possible. But there he was, he was dead.
His face looked serene; I had never seen the features so relaxed, so even; he looked as though he had only ever had calm, placid thoughts about flowers or puppies or babies. As though he had never had that sneer, eyes hardened by the anger that flowed out of him like an uncontrollable hurricane.
No, he was dead. There would never be another moment when those merciless eyes would be turned towards me, the eyes that told me that there was no help for me, that the anger was going to be unleashed, that destructive force, because of which, I hadn’t seen or spoken to the man for twenty years.…
...continue reading
The rain is merciless, has been all day. Beside the wall, the earth has become a quagmire that pulls at Christy’s navvy boots with every step he takes, trying to suck him into the bog. And a thousand years from now, they’ll be burning him in the manor fireplace along with the rest of the turf, reflects Christy. But he doesn’t earn a hapenny for sitting by the fire so the rain lashes him to the bone as he chips, chips, chips, shaping stones for his lordship’s fine demesne wall.
His mood is black as the day. His eldest daughter has been acting out, bringing grief to her mother, threatening to run off down to Dublin, the city. And now, to top it all, the news on the radio when he was having his tea: The King is dead.…
...continue reading
About twenty-five years after the deaths of Bonnie and Clyde on a country road in Bienville Parish, Louisiana, two boys were playing gangsters in their getaway car, a broken-down ‘55 Ford Crown Vic in the driveway at 266 North Campus Avenue in the City of Upland, County of San Bernardino, State of California. Every law enforcement group of those government entities was in pursuit, including perhaps the FBI.
The fugitives were speeding along at ninety miles per hour, bouncing in their seats along a bumpy country road, leaning with the treacherous curves. Several cop cars and state troopers were closing in, bullets piercing the heavy-gauge steel of the sedan. The driver revved the old V-8 in his throat, downshifting through the guttural gears on the steering-column shift (though his feet hardly touched the pedals) to take the curves and shredding rubber around high nasal squeals.…
...continue reading
Gary stepped into the bathroom and sighed. He’d been wanting to disconnect the app-deck from the bathroom mirror and delete the app, but the deck had cost him $50, not to mention $100 for the required one-year subscription. The ad popped up one evening while he was perusing the profiles on Soul Mates. Need a personal coach who will help cultivate your perfect look and help you present your best self to potential partners? With Mirror Mirror, you are just one click away from finding your ideal mate in days!
The novelty of the app and speaker for his car had worn off quickly.
Gary flipped the switch, galvanizing the insectile buzz of florescence which flooded the bathroom. He stopped and looked at his reflection from the doorway.…
...continue reading