Sitting and Somebody’s Holiday

N. Ian McCarthy

Mad Bongo Maze

Lately, I am the pearl of a mouth-blown soap bubble—a thinning pane of glass—brittle from the freezer. So, I sit under a Christmas moon and bide. My inert car is a space capsule; from a place within, hydraulics collude to distend the ripe tomato of my bladder. A tomcat, slow, like a smooth electric current, sidles up to spray a spit-clean Porsche's silver bumper, and after, drips the plump smudge of its body into the ditch by a strip of chain link fence—it melts into the night noise of popcorn fireworks and churchyard caws from all the roped dogs, leashed—as am I—to thick, uncomfortable tree trunks. Up an obscured drive, the nomadic snail of an ice cream truck plays speaker ditties— modern music-box remixes in concentric circles, near the corner convenience store's pale dead- lights where, three weeks earlier, a vexed driver spilled a bullet into the indelible pillow of…

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Author: Sudden Denouement

A Global Literary Collective

2 thoughts on “Sitting and Somebody’s Holiday”

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