Short, Fast, and Deadly

Short, Fast, and Deadly
i38
Edited by Joseph A. W. Quintela
29 August 2010

Featuring:
J. Bradley
Jon-Michael Frank
Elissa Gordon
Cajsa Landin
Mike Miller
Johnna Talbot
Caitlin Thomson

Copyright © 2010 by Individual Authors
All Rights Reserved

The Great Relief of Letting Go

In my dream, we hung off the side of an impossibly tall building. My feet tingled the way they do; I am afraid of heights. I turned to her and said, Can you believe some people actually let go? I should have known it was a dream; I was so calm. I should have known it was a dream because were I awake, I would have replied, Can you believe some people don’t. I woke up in my own bed, but the sheets were twisted.

 
by Cajsa Landin of New York City

These words

spent the night underneath a bench.
You are
a thousand ghosts at dawn.
 
by Caitlin Thomson of Toronto

Marooned

There's a quiet dignity in drowning in the adult swim of mixed drinks alone. No bar tab to sacrifice a credit card toward. No jukeboxes playing for the deaf. No doors coughing you out like nicotine jerky after last call. Alone, you are Poseidon. You’ll pick the Spanish galleon of last night from your throat without searching for snipped strings slumping from your wrists, ankles, and jaw.

 
by J. Bradley of Orlando

Parabolic

Tomorrow is just an empty
Trojan horse; I wonder
if I'm still a city worth burning.
 
by J. Bradley of Orlando

On a Tourist Street

A man believes he is walking a dingo because he holds the dog to a leash. The other end of leash stretches as far from the man as dingo can make it go. The dog's tail is a periscope, its ears are erect, its teeth visible. When the dingo spots a toy skunk dangling from the hand of a little girl, its body contorts to a lunging, choking, howling curse.

 
by Johnna Talbot of San Diego

Better Hatter

I scurried to the landfall. I perused the refuse. This hat I found is a sign that my head was no good.

 
by Jon-Michael Frank of Philadelphia

Family Business

My father
man of few words
you had to hand it to him
80 years in sweets
he distills to 8 words:
 
Pour sugar
Melt, fling
Floss slats
Cool candy.
 
by Elissa Gordon of Elizabeth

GG

At 95, she was blind but feisty, navigating her home with one hand on the wall. The teabag had already been boiled eleven times, but she poured me a cup of #12 and demonstrated her new talking clock.

At 101, she sits on the stark white bed in a backless gown and gums a sliver of cheese, at times seeming to forget why. I say nothing. Outside the window, a robin cocks its head and flies away.

 
by Mike Miller of Stockbridge