Three micro-fiction pieces | Jack Ryan

mojo

Henry came to the Mojo looking for something – work, a familiar face, his old seat at the bar or piano – but found none of the above, instead, an angel, sick with tremor and babbling, beads of blue-white light dripping from her eyes, a tune, subheard but fully present between fluid and murmur, an incantation against All and Nothing Else. In the puddle on the table before her, Henry could make out, but just barely, a viral shine, music personified, a landscape of mutinous slivers, fighting themselves and the universe that built them, and it brought to mind a dreaming moment wherein he understood the truth, the value of seeking the unmentioned and unpromised. For a moment he missed the rhythm of life behind bars. The sound of other men’s screams. The faulty sense of finality. Now he knew he’d go on living. He nodded at the angel, left Mojo, and began walking,

godlights

By the lost light of the laughing godhead, I’d come to a place above my former fears and faulty concerns (remember the dream of heavy empty things pressing up against me) and began taking pleasure in the losing path, covered in burnt bridges and brambles and other mythological creatures, coming to a place I no longer recognized as a place at all

king

Someone had torn his heart out once (no, wait, please, I assure you the rest of this sentence contains no clichés) massaged the aorta, left ventricle, replaced the superior vena cava with that of an Olympian, the inferior with a piece of synthetic something or other and dropped the whole thing into the all new and eternally experimental Nutri-Gel; now the world waited to find out the fate of the once and future celebrity car wash owner, Caleb King.

There are currently no comments.

Your words are welcome…