Where his arms, hands, and legs were, now are phantom limbs. He waits in extremity.
He was a believer, once. When words claimed to mean and he could feel whole. Now
his mute mouth and stunned mind are stuffed with aphoristic abracadabras as he loses
the comfort of trumped up truths. He’s staked on premises, spins round and round
as rhetoric rankles and rumples, trapping him in interstitial stuttered time. Fallacy
after fallacy sieve through him as the feral night drags a drugged shadow behind
flashes of phrases, lines, and letters—where meaning could not, cannot, will
not.
newspapers flail
exploding catastrophes
headlines riddle streets
studies, writes, and teaches flash fiction and haibun. Her feature-length articles
on flash fiction have appeared in several issues of Writer’s Digest
and in their other publications), in The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing
Flash Fiction, and in Books and Beyond: The Greenwood Encyclopedia of New
American Reading.
