Mar/Apr 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 2 FictionMarch 1, 2017 |

The White Line

To the left is a bent house, all punched in by the wind and sun and the cheap materials folding it from the inside. I know what the rooms look like. Unstuffed furniture busted from slumping bodies. Bongs and needles and spoons the only shiny decorations. A handbag with its guts spilled out. Cups green and furred, their hairs topped with white spores ready to fly at a breath. Somewhere in a deeper room lies a body, alive, but only a body. Not enough breath from it to release the spores. The body will rise in a few hours and resume its life. To my right through the driver s side window a dog in shitting position on a dry nature strip, staring at me, daring me to laugh. A pit bull. Ferocious fighting dog caught in that ridiculous cross-legged, hunched shape, the one moment of its vulnerability. Don't worry, mate, didn't see a thing. And by the way, have you seen my husband? A car behind me flashes its lights, then the driver leans on the horn. I pull over. Angry red mouth blah

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Ishinomaki

By Michael Brennan

To the left is a bent house, all punched in by the wind and sun and the cheap materials folding it from the inside. I know what the rooms look […]

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