The guards open the door and one announces in stodgy monotone that my time is up. They leave. I struggle to stand and shut the door. What’s another eternity? I need a specialist to remove the anti-logic of my soul. The room I’m imprisoned in is level with the clouds that form vowel-shapes and the sky, which is a lost voice that disowns itself. The guards return and say that If I don’t leave, they won’t serve me food. A roll of laughter overtakes me. A laughter not my own. Maybe from some dumb cursed god, the omnipotence of a broken-down jukebox. “It’s okay,” I say, “I’m tired of eating rats, sewer-grown, and the fungus that passes here as mushrooms.” “Then, rot!” one yells in gruff stentorian voice. The door slams. I listen to the tapering footsteps become the distant feet of bullied children. My memory mixed with someone else’s tainted dust. Outside, the sky refuses to blink, sinks into itself. The clouds form fluff consonants then dissolve into stretches of longing and self-hate. The whole world must be lonely.
i recall the murders
but not the victims
Kyle Hemmings is a retired health care worker. He has been published in Is/Let, Matchbook, Otata, Sonic Boom, and elsewhere. He loves street art, French Impressionism, Kate Winslet, and 60s garage bands that never charted.