Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Fiction #32: Jon R. Flieger

sorry I drunk textiled you last night again

FUCKIN autocorrect

We are drunk on kerosene and I swallow a Roman candle to impress you. The firebreather.

There. I started on the lie and the image so the truth is okay now. It is buried and you won’t read past the first line. I miss you and it’s alright to say that now. It’s fine. I see your face in patterns. You take shape in the stucco of a ceiling. I read your name in numbers and the static at the edge of the screen. The brain is an architect among wolves. This is a failing, but an intentional one. Human beings learned to read patterns to survive. I will survive you. This is on the nose but that’s okay. Language is for communicating. I will be plain. Call me to tell me you’re unhappy. That you miss me. That you’re sorry you got drunk before you left and kissed me. You have feelings for me even though




Okay. We’re okay.

We’re okay. Sure.

Listen to the dial tone scream never eat again my dogs will be fine. They will swallow my body and someone will come rescue them when no one sees me for a while. This is on the nose. That is a grown ass man wanting to die over you. Precious. You’re my white whale. Wait no. Harpoon imagery.

Nope. Not doing that.

I can drink you out of my brain. I am extra double powerful like that. I can mix kraken and dr. pepper. I can text Hollie that I have invented and swallowed the dr. doom and that I don’t miss you. She will call tomorrow to see if I’m okay.
You were kind of for real last night

And I’ll say nothing is ever for real. And she will lose interest in the conversation. I’m obviously all right and now I’m being boring.

She’ll say look I’m sorry that

And I’ll say nope. Nope not doing that.

And she’ll say but at some point you have to

And I’ll swallow my cell phone.

Go driving and see fire and dead crows eaten by live crows at the sides of roads. This is not metaphor or a pattern this is cannibalism. Buy a new phone and hover thumb over your number. Swallow me down. Language is for communicating. I shouldn’t buy a plane ticket. I should just survive. And yet. Put phone in pocket. Will maybe text you later. Drink kerosene or krakens. Feed the dogs and edit the dictionary settings on my phone. Why not.


Jon R. Flieger is from Windsor and now lives in Calgary. He is afraid of bees.

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