High Society

Published in Garbled Transmissions.

High Mountains, Drakensberg, Kwa-zu

We laid naked together in her parents’ barn, watching the skies through the holes in the roof.

“Tell me about it again,” said Tracy. Brown hair fell over the olive skin of her face as she sat up. Her eyes glittered like a pair of emeralds in the evening light.

I didn’t move. My body was young, but she still had a way of wearing me out. I looked at her sleepily and smiled. “It’s all just memories from childhood. I don’t even know if they’re real.”

“Come on, Dakota.” Her voice took a pleading tone, knowingly baiting me. “Just tell me a little.”

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Fallen Hero

Originally published in The Lyndon Review.

Green Lantern #10

He walks across the baseball field where we like to hang out. His left hand swings casually at his side, but his right fist lies hidden in the deep pockets of his navy blue corduroys. The crisp autumn air has left the field abandoned for weeks now, and the pitcher’s mound lies covered in the dead Technicolor of Vermont leaves. He brushes the old foliage away with his foot, never removing the secret from his pocket. Climbing onto the mound, he stands as close to heaven as either of us will ever get. He points his head toward the setting sun. His hand shoots out to follow his line of vision, finally revealing the secret on his right index finger. The small plastic band still glows green from its hiding place in darkness. He smiles as I let out a gasp of awe.

It’s his power ring. It cost him two proofs of purchases and half of his allowance for shipping and handling, but it has finally arrived.

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A Slice of Death

Originally published in Garbled Transmissions.

Church Ruins, by Tim Emerich

“Sleep, those little slices of death. How I loathe them.” -Edgar Allen Poe

The world: all shadows and smoke. A body lies nearby, oozing life in all directions. Concentric circles of blood and color mix with the blackness of the surrounding world. He squints without eyes, trying to make out details. The corpse is far away and getting farther, a view from another existence. He does not see the vehicle responsible for the scene, nor does he notice the EMT trying to resuscitate the dead man. The body is the focus of his world, a lone piece of debris in a world painted black. He thinks that maybe the body used to be him. Or maybe it used to be a complete stranger. He imagines himself as a spectral rubbernecker.

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An Hour Off

Originally published in The Lyndon Review.

Clock, by George Hodan

I woke up in bed next to a naked woman. Not a Hollywood-style naked woman with skin smelling like fresh soap and the blanket conveniently covering her nipples to keep a PG-13 rating. Instead it was a northern Vermont-style naked woman, with breasts like old yogurt and a small puddle of drool soaking into her pillow. She tightened her grip on the blanket as I eased myself to the waking world. When I saw her reddened knuckles, I began wondering where I was.

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