local_library Simonis Maxtabilee

by Christopher Love

Published in Issue No. 256 ~ September, 2018
“Are you listening?”

Barbadaaquick. Lemmonndale Slabberbatter. Fromanticklin. Awashondell. Heberbetter barkencrump. Vellostinstink. From whence do the frogs emanate?!

“Listen, just . . .”

The trick has been played. Each has its place. The scribble. The drivel. The gurgle. Bubbled up. Batted down. Pushed and pooled with the rest. Bounce. Light shatters the glass. Up against the wail. Shadow. Beam. Crosshair on the screen. Tree peaking in. Samson Agonistes. On the shelf. Dust, rag, wipe. Tack it down. Racket up. Beach ball on the side. Tacitly. Barbituate. Gangle. Gaggle. Lipswitch. Hearts are yonder. Tongue.

“They said . . .”

Bratwurst. Haxencroft. Miller sax. Bobbity. Sandy destin. Formaldehyde. Wovenrot. Clissen. Deportment. Brandywine. A little off the top.

“Listen . . . I want you to . . .”

Move in. Glide. Roundabout. Hear the bark. Shssh, shssh, shssh. Rusted. Gorked. Barnaby. Calfrenchia. Qasamine Plio Lace. Vorssondralin. Xanadelphi. Posthumously later. Edify the adjunct. Bring in the peace that I ordered. Hooboodooboo. Zvxsity. Ruminate. Veridine-go-faster. Pinwheels from beyond. Shivvydonsockatamu. Talalxistwy. Gimminatratig. Get a glass of water. Klickensox. Estuary. And from the steppes of flammity here comes the gold. Wheat, Barley, and Rye. Giddankadu. Cracked fingernell. Hye. Bigh. Nestor wants to play. Allionstasis. Potash. Vigilante on the prowl. Jump behind a boosh.

“And then . . .”

Wilcox. Greet me in the ally. Shoppe a-round-stawp. Bloo. Read. I sing on the cake. Temperamental paragon. Tear a bull. Tawdry. Goosenburg highstakes.

“And then… listen… and then… then, they had to take it!” “Why?” I asked. “Because… because… then, got it… ha… then it wouldn’t have been… ha…” “Wouldn’t have been what?” I asked. “It wouldn’t have been…” “C’mon now… I’m listening.” “It wouldn’t have been…”

Green? “No, no, no.” What, what, what? “Let me tell it . . .” Islet. “Somehow…” Let it leap. It entered. “It couldn’t have been.” Allie wants to pay. “’Twas, ‘twas.” From hear on owt. “Huh?” “They said it wasn’t…” Shucks. Mygod. “How much did it bleed?” “But, but… then they took it.” These are the things we tell ourselves. Muchtoosoon. “How much . . .” I asked. “You don’t get to.” “How mutch?” No, no, no. “You don’t get to . . .” End of the rope. “Hand it to me.” “They called the . . .” “Who? What?” “They called the doctor.” Yellow. Vexatreen. Pale pail.

And then she said, “I bled too much.”


account_box More About

Christopher Love is originally from Memphis, TN. A published novelist and scholar, he is also hard at work refining his poetry and guitar skills.