By Jace Brittain
That word: Fortune being relative, I was made to understand Mr. Sonnabend had spent more than he could afford on the thing: “Well, it is, uh,” he said, “I, look, I mean, you, listen,” and I was just passenger to: he holds up a, he says, human horn, and he says, “I can’t make heads or tails of—" and I stopped him right there because I won’t let someone make a mockery of human anatomy, its delicate or dim damp illusory curves and casts, where light loses ground at the inner ear, and said: “That thing is a projection, external, unusual,” while, after all, my grandfather, who kept alive so long a tusked rabbit, regretted it, we thought, later, when he died, so Mr. Sonnabend, flustered, dropped it under the table, when I hunkered down there to find him: hands and knees, elbows propped and arms encircling, a collection of such oddities: the electric lamp between his teeth beamed at the tilt flitting from object to object as if he thought a curiosity might save him, however, however, however, however,
Jace Brittain, the author of Sorcererer (Schism Neuronics), has published writing in Annulet, Grotto Journal, ANMLY, dadakuku, and elsewhere.
Art by Jace Brittain.
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