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Tweet A thick blade of yellow, dead grass tickles the sensitive membrane inside the rim of my nose. My whole body spasms; I snap upright and paw with dirty palms at my eyes, chipping away the grainy caulk of unconsciousness. Eyes open, I seem stricken by synaesthesia: the phosphorescent lemon sunlight registers as a . . . → Read More: Lifeline Tweet Take, for instance, the three-minute introductory sequence of Busted Hub. A logy wipe like the cockeyed rising of Venetian blinds opens the film. Trevor Czewski, greasy-haired and wrapped in a blue/black flannel, sighs in the cracked vinyl front seat of his Chevette.[1]* His left cheekbone bears a recently popped pimple which one will watch Trevor, . . . → Read More: All the Little Moving Parts Tweet 1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a rear . . . → Read More: Revenants Tweet When my thoughts collapse, I can still feel your breath and small fingers, practicing power chords on the tendon frets of my forearm. What was blue for me turned red for you. I promise that my first tattoo will be a polychrome apology. Everything’s gone too far and everything’s gone too fast. And by the . . . → Read More: Altered Tweet I. Two Dvaid stands staring at himself in the scuffed chrome of elevator doors. Craggy cheekbones strain at sallow skin, broken bristles of straw blonde hair hang in his eyes. Ratty, sleep-worn clothes are wrinkled and stiff: a far cry from the bolo-tied Eagle Scout David used to be. He flexes fists around a rumpled . . . → Read More: [sic] Tweet 1. The Father The burial isn’t the first time the father has seen his son, but it may as well be. Nine months after delivery, he told his son’s mother he’d never wanted children. He stood with the woman on the sunlit front porch of their townhouse. “I’m sorry,” he said. “All babies look like . . . → Read More: The Kind of Man Who Tweet Originally, I was only trying to explain the subtler nuances of the moment to my friend. In the explicated memory, I had quit smoking weeks previously and my sense of smell, deadened by the habit, had returned all at once, all while I slept in on a March morning. I knew something had changed, but . . . → Read More: The Rationale of Sesquipedalism Tweet Two Across is ‘love’ and he tells her so and she fills it in. He waits for her reaction; there is no reaction. The clue was ‘amorous sentiment’ and he solved it easily because he sits at the counter with her and the shampoo in her shower damp hair is redolent. “One Down is ‘alas,’” . . . → Read More: Holophrastic |
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