Your ghost haunts me, even now. I lay here searching the stars for the one that might be you, the cold ground beneath me, surrounding me; I know you are beside me. The first shovelful of dirt hits my chest and I wonder, why are they burying me at night?
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“And for my next sleight of hand,” said the prestidigitator, “I will turn this potato into a magician!”
The magician bends, knife in hand, and carves the spud into the shape of a number one.
He opens his palms to present his work of art and says:
“Presto! Digit tater!”
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I’m compelled to do things just to piss you off. Like leave the toilet seat up after I’ve told you a thousand times to put it down, or chop off your balls because I caught you cheating on me. And I would. If it wasn’t for all my own affairs.
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“Hey Hank! What do you think of my letter?”
Dear Felicity,
Your duplicity is unprecedented. Your name implies delights unimaginable and yet you refuse to go down on me. What gives?
“Errr, Stan? Her name’s Felicity. Not Fellatio.”
“Oh. OHHH!”
Dear Felicity,
Please accept deepest apologies for my recent behaviour…
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You preen and promenade your way ’round town, your ego ejaculating from you like a sprinkler on a rainy day; useless and no one wants it. You smile as I watch you overtly. Yet surreptitiously I study you, striving to catch you with my magnifying glass in the sizzling sunlight.
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I need to move to a warmer climate. Here, the polar bears sit on me and the penguins poop on me and I’m just miserable, you know? It’s not easy being frozen inside an iceberg. Maybe if I bob out of the water and stare at a passing cruise ship…
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My new girlfriend fell in love with my stamp collection on our first date. On the second I showed her my Star Wars figurines and she was ecstatic. So tonight, on our third date, I’ll introduce her to my stool sample collection the doctor requested. And I plan to propose.
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It’s day two hundred and eleven and I’m still waiting for the opportunity to come out in the open. I will ask the first human I encounter to take me to their leader. Conditions are cramped; I long to hear the sound of my own voice. I see a light…
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“It is clear the accused is insane and needs to be institutionalized.”
“But…” She stands. “I’m not insane! I was…”
“Sit down,” says the judge. “You are clearly insane.
“Take her away!”
“But I was framed!”
“Yes,” the prosecution says. “That’s what they all say.”
“Commit her to the asylum!”
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I read the story in the car, in a parking lot, while my husband went into the building for an interview. The story was set in an apocalyptic world. Two people, believing the world was about to end, made love like there was no tomorrow. And then they lived to tell about it.
Linda G. Hill 