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Flash Fiction
by
Joseph Young
WARREN
I stutter. Okay? I juggle for a living and I wear suspenders and a tartan
beret. Okay? I’m fat. My mouth tastes like ash from swallowing fire. And I
can’t keep my thoughts off Karin. She’s my juggling partner, beautiful.
She’s Dutch and she’s a lesbian. Okay? Is that okay?
This morning I’m in my room, sleeping. The floor begins to swim beneath the
futon; the plaster cracks; the windows tear into murderous triangles. This
is it, I think. I’m dead. Right now. 9.0 on the Richter.
I throw off the covers and bang through my door. I cross the hall and bang
through Karin’s. She’s in bed with her girlfriend. They are sitting up,
holding each other’s hands, eyes on the trembling walls. Their four pink
breasts shine in the white morning light.
The shaking stops and the city wails with car alarms. The girls, pillows to
their chests, are staring at me. At my penis stiff in my underwear. “No!” I
say. “It’s the fear. I’m afraid.” My ears burn with blood.
In the corner are three juggling axes. They have no blade, blunter than
butter knives. I pick them up and start to juggle. Why? I don’t know. I
don’t know.
The girls watch and they begin to laugh. I’m ridiculous. It’s absurd. I’m in
my underwear with a hard on. I’m terrified. Don’t know what I’m doing. And
they smile. They laugh. Oh god, that lovely bathing light, they laugh.
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