PFX-54

Here, friends, is a short story. I'm not usually a short-story man, I mostly spin poetics, so please forgive my intentional lack of adhesion to prose-ology.


the man had an 800 pound silverback gorilla on his. . . back. and a dog at his feet that was always cold because the damn gorilla used all the electricity. and so it went, monotonously each day stretching out like a scroll of a to-do list as long as an interstate highway. if it wasn't for the gory, greusome, chopping up and maiming of small animals that he did with a large machette on saturdays and sundays in a large field of dead grass just over the hill from the traintracks, his life would feel completely meaningless. the flies were a whole other matter entirely.

being that his father kept, in the backyard, a compost heap of all of his mistakes ever since he could remember, when he finally moved into his own place, he figured he would do the same. he had become comfortably numb, an orangutang, wit dulled to a spoon- too big for the bowl.

his actual power was only matched by his fear of his true power, which he met one warm, foggy night while he was driving to his parents' house, alone. the fog was so heavy that he slowed down and turned on his low beams, creeping through the thick fog. just at that moment an ominous, menacing, ghoulish shadowy form lurched out from a blindspot that had been created by the limited nature of his feeble, man-made headlights and the utter charcoal blackness surrounding the area not lit by these incompetent lights causing him to explode in a fiery burst of shock that split seconds into trillions of tiny shards and wracked his body with such a fierce terror that the instant after it was felt he began to repress it. tires screeched, mouth contorted, eyes bulged. and as the thick, rolling fog momentarily cleared, the heinous beast came into view: a young deer, slightly startled, but clear-eyed, it jumped back into the night, a silent little gallop.