Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

WATERSLIDES IN AUXILIARY HOSPITAL WASHROOM by Daniel Thompson

 

When You Know

There was talk of soul mates and it was science and I liked it that way. That night I slipped my muzzle off, “quiet” quiet. Another night, I was up late; I was up so late, oh you know the kind of late, it’s quiet like muzzle motives and dark, so very dark excuse me “buio," it is buio and there are lofty giggles and everyone calls each other “babe” over the telephone because it is that kind of late. Those are the rules, you know.

I get cravings so I wait for it, you know? It has no time and the recognition that it has arrived is slow. Once, it found me while bathing and I was coy because well, of course, you know. 

And of course you know that for a full season I was up that kind of late. The lamplight was there and the whirring of the fan and my nipples made a few appearances, they are luce e di colore rosa but my mouth was dark and my conscience was quiet. All of this you know.

You knew everything, you have your brass staff and your saxophone throat and did you know that Hades, literally, means ‘unseen’?

Right. Zeus, a spear of thunder; Poseidon, a trident of the sea; and Hades, a helmet that gave invisibility to its carrier.

I have no interest in the throne of Persephone, though you’d like to think so, I know. I want to be turned to mint, to the white poplar tree and consumed in one night by wildfire where I will be the color of ash and “full-throated as the sea”

spent but once and oh so free.

 

Nyoka Eden is an emerging writer and moth enthusiast temporarily residing in Northwest Arkansas in an effort to get her caca together. Her first published flash fiction piece is forthcoming in Apocrypha and Abstractions in 2015. She was also selected to contribute to a crowdsourced poem by NPR’s Code Switch. She has a blog but it’s wimpy so please keep tabs on her via twitter @bbybardot.