Archive | March, 2017

Deathbed Miranda

24 Mar

“I hate you, Birdman,” the big man said. He was standing at the end of the path, looking up at Birdman, who was hovering over the lake. The boys stood further up the path, behind the big man. Birdman thought the boys were doomed, but he said nothing. He stayed a little longer, to try to hear more. But the boys were steaming away, their naked torsos dusky with sand.

The only time Birdman came low to the earth was over the water. Here there was other music. In the waves. Birdman could hear it. Birdman could hover. The wind dies from his ears. One day, he flew too close to the beach and heard what all the little boys were saying. “Let’s get out of here,” one of the boys shouted back to the others. There’s no way out, Birdman thought.

The new law of Jan. 31: an internal failure of cohesion

23 Mar

“I like to sew,” the girl says.
The boy has a spoon in his hand.
“Do you want ribs tonight,” the girl asks, “or burgers?”
The girl has a piece of fabric in her lap. She sticks a needle into it. The needle goes into the fabric and comes out the other side.