I nearly faked my own death by electrocution.
Sounded like a rearrange of the original epic
techno, rock opera filibuster, by Whatshisname.
Thank goodness for daylight savings time.
Otherwise, I would have been a gonnner.
Now, I think I’m going to enjoy myself,
but I can’t be sure. It’s just my opinion.
Satan says, when matter collides with anti-matter,
all that remains is light. Beautiful floristry, though.
My friend, Shakespeare, says, don’t be silly, that’s total nonsense.
But I’ve got my doubts, on account of his botched retirement.
Imagine, walking around town with a bloodstained bag of knives?
I mean, come on, really?
By the way, this is the most letters I ever wrote in one place,
at least since she told me she was going to make me her first husband.
You think that would have stood out,
but I guess I was desensitized by the life-sized micro greens.
Motorcycle club or biker gang?
It all depends on how you look at it.
Come to think of it, it was like she was camouflaged by underlined italics.
That made it hard to tell whether I was in the treatment or the control group.
You know how it is.
At first, everything seems like an autopsy.
Then, a light shines on it.
Yes, sometimes the cars laugh at me, even the taxis. Mitzi thinks it’s because I’m too short to be smart, which gives me a sinking feeling that in my next life, I’m going to be a toy boat. You know what they say: the past hasn’t ended; it just takes a long time to catch up. Even in this dark, I can hear the mute flowers drowning in their blue loneliness. A thousand gallons of silence. As we exit the dark eye of the tunnel, I tell Mitzi, next week, sure as bullet, I’m going to enroll in an on-line magic class. Then I close my eyes and listen to the wild animals of my next ideas. Mitzi says, That’s great Miles, but let’s keep both hands on the steering wheel. By next week, we both might be dead, and we wouldn’t want to spoil the forensic evidence. Mitzi’s as optimistic as a first aid kit in a funeral home. Although the exact cause remains unknown, she’s a lot cuter than she looks.
In other news, it was a gunshot hello on Saturday evening for one Mr. Rex White. You should have seen the before and after photos. Witnesses said he tried to convey the appearance of sentience, right up until the end. The bullet jewelry and skull velvet however, didn’t help. Sutured together, he was found busy doing nothing. Unnamed sources speculated that his unarmed misfortune might be due to a temporary disequilibrium of innocence. One said he appeared to have so much potential (E = m x g x z). Police, who reported they were vastly outnumbered by Mr. White, also pointed out that men commit suicide three times more often than women, and that the state pays 110 dollars a day for each inmate. Mr. White, they boasted, represents a cost savings. Distraught and weeping, his unemployed roommate told reporters, Not every spider spins a web, you know. Family members admitted they had their suspicions, because for the past month, Mr. White had been spotted rehearsing worst case scenarios and naturally occurring disasters—just in case. His sister of twelve years told reporters, He was afraid of a God who has all the answers. In his pocket, police found a scribbled note: Dead ponies make me sad. Mr. White, I hope you are in a safe place now. God is everywhere.
Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of Pink X-Ray (Big Table Publishing, 2015.) Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize in fiction, Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in The Los Angeles Times, Folio, decomP, The Baltimore Review, The Midwest Quarterly, San Pedro River Review, Off the Coast, Posit, Third Wednesday, Boston Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing, and other publications.