Short Fiction

Before sitting down to write a story
I’ll think up a character with a few
miles on him but not so many as to
put him to sleep by nine leaving our eager
third person narrator little to do
but describe the layout of the bedroom
furniture of uneven pedigree
clutter enough to suggest spiritual disarray
well within acceptable limits
but worth keeping an eye on
suggesting sotto voce a second character
someone with a few hours to ****
in Wiesbaden or Banda Aceh
poling a spoon through black coffee
gone cold in a spider vein cup
the slightest shift of a knee twisting
the plot around the discovery of a memory
stick taped to the underside of his café table
“Marnie-LA” labeled in red.  
I write some muscular verbs to wrestle
him onto to an overnight train to Split and shift
to an unreliable first person singular
narrator who finds himself wincing
into a coffee cup at daybreak
feathery words crumpled on the grass
beneath the window
confused by their own reflection.