My head's exposed in an O.R.,
with a neurosurgeon’s fingers scratching at my tumor.
Dog.
Awake, vocalizing names of images nurses hold,
to prove to us all that I'm still alive.
House.
But . . . that pain. That--.
Uh. Car?
C-ah. Ah.
Um.
Car.
My head's exposed in an O.R., with a neurosurgeon’s fingers scratching at my tumor. Dog. Awake, vocalizing names of images nurses hold, to prove to us all that I'm still alive. House. But . . . that pain. That--. Uh. Car? C-ah. Ah. Um.
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I’m afraid. Here in the lake of moonlight, I’m afraid of what else they might do to me. My hands burn from gripping these bars so tightly, trying to pull them from their brick walls or snap them in two with my bare hands. The blisters have long dried away, but they ache as if thrown into the fire with my leg. That ghost pain is real. Sometimes, when I’m just waking up, stretching my fingers and my arms, I think my toes are stretching, too. Then I go to kick my left foot to climb out of bed, and I gain full consciousness, and realize that I’m in this dungeon, and my left leg that was sliced off at the knee by the men who put me here is not there. Your Fire Knights took it on the field after shooting me with an arrow. They called it a courtesy.
Jeremy spent the morning mixing and scorching a frittata as his mother slept. She said to be careful with knives, but an eight-year-old will still have trouble.
When he served it to his mother, she examined a black forkful. “What’s this?” “Frittata! Ham. Tomatoes. Parmesan.” “And, what’s this?” “Oh, that? That’s my finger. The knife slipped when daddy struggled. And that’s his eyeball. Happy Mother’s Day.”
Must’ve been a thousand miles an hour.
Just zoomin’ across the floor, searching for the bottle. Cracked my head on the coffee table, I did. . . . No. That is not what the binky is for. That’s because I’s good. Doodled in my diaper.
Chuck stared down from the bridge, his toes gripping the cinder-block tied to his leg. His angst towards his poverty-ridden existence had led him to this moment.
When he hit the water, Chuck wondered if he was childish, if, at 35, it was preposterous to believe that his life lacked purpose. I don’t want to die, he thought, but untying a rope under water is difficult.
Chuck opened his eyes, feeling the soothing heat of radiant light enveloping him. He ran his hands over what felt like a rug. He was still soaking wet, and he wondered if he had actually jumped or if he simply wet himself after falling asleep on his floor due to an uncomfortable dream or just too much rum. That’d be embarrassing, he thought, at 35.
He sat and surveyed his surroundings, though he wasn't certain if he was seeing something or nothing. He knew he was somewhere, but it felt like nowhere in particular. He looked down at his legs, and noticed the discoloration around his ankles where the rope had been, and pieces of swollen and bloody flesh still hung off his legs where the rope dug in and tore through him when he had struggled. It wasn't a dream. “Name?” Chuck rolled through the nothingness, frightened. He couldn't see anyone. He looked up, climbing to his wobbly feet, and circled around himself. “Name?” The voice lacked enthusiasm. Chuck stood still, and realized he was standing in a magnificent lake of light. When he looked up, he saw his own face speak. “Chuck, what is your name?” “Wait, you know my name?” “It’s a formality, Chuck. Just roll with it.”
Chatá was tending to his bleeding foot after stepping on a bur, when a twig cracked somewhere behind him, and he jerked around to survey his surroundings. Nothing.
As he turned back around, he came face-to-face with a wildebeest. She stared into his eyes as she inched her head closer to his. Then she spoke, “Run.” Chatá clambered to his feet, and the chase was on.
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Archives
March 2017
AuthorTony is actively working on several writing projects including a play, a novel, short stories and children stories. Some of these items may appear on this page, and others may appear on the store page (not active). Categories
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Awards:for "Just Like Mommy"
for "Pim & the Open Drain"
for "Pim & the Glass Jar"
for "One Drink."
for "No Prince."
for "Neither would he."
for "The Burning of Pounce"
for "Revelation, Part Two"
for "Precise Specifications"
Tony's bookshelf: favorites
This book has stuck with me since I finished reading it over three years ago. I was deeply fascinated by the story being told from the point of view of such a young child, and the way he tells the story is so viscerally devastating and b...
by Ernest Cline
From start to finish, this book had me excited! I struggled putting it down. Although many of the references went over my head (because I have yet to enjoy such nerd culture), it didn't matter. The concept and the pure exhilarating joy o...
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