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March 21, 2019
Sacha Archer
March 22, 2019
Blood Brain Barrier
Did you hear? They finally breached the blood brain barrier. Somebody loaded explosive
dreams into a wooden box, lined it with seashells, and wired it to a Patek Philippe. Kablooie!
Now there’s no difference between life and the afterlife, penny ante poker or polo operas where
the ponies sing contralto and the players, all dressed in black, keep their mouths shut. So long,
perception. Somebody ought to write a thank you note.
Final Notes from a War Criminal
I thought I was a secret. A bit of newspaper that flew away on the wind. A scrap of t-shirt
torn off by a dog. I was going to out myself like this: Holy Grail! Knights Templar! A brand-new
Crusade! You would have seen what I meant by peace. Now there’s a sticky business. That and
ruling the world. The stickiest of businesses I can think of. We all aspire, but then one day we
look down and there’s a little bottle of poison in our hands. Ah, well. A toast, then. To secrets.
To life. To the Kingdom of Heaven, such as it is.


Holed Up
I’m holed up in the cistern in your backyard. There’s a dim light in your kitchen window.
I’d follow protocol and ring your doorbell if I thought you’d really fall in love with me.
When you step out back to smoke your last cigarette, I button the stars to my skin. Glory
hallelujah when you finally slam the screen door. I can go back to sleep and dream of you.


Paul Luikart is the author of the short story collections Animal Heart (Hyperborea Publishing, 2016) and Brief Instructions (Ghostbird Press, 2017.) His flash fiction was recently included in the 2019 Best Microfiction anthology from Pelekinesis Press. He is an adjunct professor of fiction writing at Covenant College, in Lookout Mountain, Georgia. He and his family live in Chattanooga, Tennessee.