I couldn’t hurt you with a hammer. How was I to know. What did you did do? Nothing, I was zoning on that lady’s feet. Which? The barefoot one dancing in the sawdust. I was watching the sawdust clouds thinking about atomic bomb testing survivors compensation liability bikini atolls and jury duty. That’s his wife. Dancing barefoot?. He’s gone out to his truck to get his hammer. Whatever you do, don’t touch it. The guy’s a fridge, no lights on inside. You best go out the back kitchen door. I’ll stall him. Hand him a free beer.
The fridge returned with wings. I was dipping my finger in the soup pot. Floor freshly mopped. The hammer a 14 pounder sledge, swinging in palms, the screen door flapped. I sprinted through the pines into the cold waist-high river. Trout skimmed my thighs. Roosters and angels crowed and choired. Layered rounds circled sweet harmony water gush rock crack the bar titled on foundation up on the hill stools flew out windows name shouts warning all clamor the sweet hum of near Glover Vermont once and the weekend long. Studying about that good ol’ way and who shall wear the robe and crown Good Lord, show me the way, sang some grinning beaver as resurrection turned from ascension to comprehension.
David Morgan O’Connor is from a small village on Lake Huron. After many nomadic years, he is based in Albuquerque, where a novel and MFA progresses. His writing has appeared in; Barcelona Metropolitan, Collective Exiles, Across the Margin, Headland, Cecile’s Writers, Bohemia, Beechwood, Fiction Magazine, After the Pause, The Great American Lit Mag (Pushcart nomination) , The New Quarterly and The Guardian. Tweeting @dmoconnorwrites.