30 Days of Short Stories #11 #flashfiction

Each night when I go to sleep I become a termite. I am an ugly, shiny, pale thing in a colony full of other ugly, shiny, pale things.

I do the work of other termites. I am not very high up in the chain of command. I bite and I bite and I bite at the hard wood. It feels like I will lose my teeth. The other termites bark orders. I work harder. I want to quit but I will starve if I do.

When I wake up I have splinters in my teeth and stuck in my gums. My furniture is fucked. I’ve gone through eight tables this year. The people at the furniture store know me. I’m afraid they have figured it out.

30 Days of Short Stories #4 [flash fiction]

In all her years eating the alphabet cereal with all the little marshmallows in it, she’d only seen one word. The word “couch” spelled clear as day, two summers ago, in her one bedroom apartment.

The weird part was that that day she was eating on the couch. She always ate at the table, but not on the day that the cereal said “couch.”

Today a new word appeared; the word “liar.” And suddenly she had a mistrust of everyone.

suicide by cop

The idea that somebody
Can commit suicide
By somebody else murdering them
Is a weird concept

Suicide by cop
Presupposes that
A cop is merely a force
Of nature
With no personal agency
Like gravity
Like gas
Like the ocean
A cop just kills
With as much culpability
As San Francisco Bay

You can’t indict the noose
You can’t convict the gun
The tool of the suicide
Is blameless

Alienation #3

I read a story about a guy who died
And then people saw the work
He’d toiled over his whole life.
It was some kind of art
And people marveled about
How this quiet old man
Had made such rich things
And never told anybody.

It’s a story people like.
We’re all clamoring for some recognition
That what we do in our respective laboratories
Somehow matters.
Someday people will know what we made.
If not in this life,
The next.