Trying To Build A winning Routine
The package arrived on the porch addressed to Resident no return address. I wasn’t expecting anything. I had only just arrived, just finished a two-hour run, clouds threatened rain. The box was tiny, brown, sealed tight in transparent tape, handwriting impeccable. I brought the box inside the house and placed it on the mantle. I opened a bottle of lite beer, started the bathwater, turned the air-conditioner on, and got naked. Searching for a Bach sonata on Spotify, I heard the floorboards creep. It’s an old place, needs work, perfect for high pitch violins. The water flowed too loud to hear the symphony, rose high and quick and filled my ears, the bubble bath smelt good but stung my eyes. Steam fogged the mirror.
Jack’s Ghost Succumbs to Envy
While the new guy was running, I laid a powdered trail mix of saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal around the foundation. I sprayed under too as the house sits on cement blocks. The owners are saving to move the place to where sink-wholes are not an issue. A nuclear squirrel family made an ear-splitting exit. I set the package on the porch and retreated to the hammock for reconnaissance. The palm fronds stilled their wavy applause. I thought the darkening clouds were a seal of approval. Go ahead bless this blackbody radiation. Greenlight ebullition.
The Science of Global Warming is Undebatable
Meanwhile, under the Black Sea where the chupacabras had built their stone lair, a tectonic shift in universal fault lines tumbled from crust to mantle. High water shot heavenward and tonal logic fell askew. A few freighters far from port survived, not much else: snow leopards, Andean condors, big-horned sheep, chamois, ibex, chinchilla, marmot, tahrs, and obviously bald eagles.
After towelling and the harpsichord finale, I took a steak knife and slit the edges of the well-wrapped package which contained an 8-track cartridge of Blondie’s AutoAmerican album. To my surprise, because it had not been there before my run nor bath, a portable battery-operated 8-track player sat on the mantle. What is a human to do but shove the cassette into the slot and press play?
No Warning for Noah as Recalled by Jack’s Ghost
I watched the walls and new guy’s hair go up in flames. The painted-shut window blew out, some glass shards hailed the hammock but I closed my mouth despite my smile in time to see the metal appliances fall through the pine floor. At first, I thought the rising water originated from the severed pipes but when the drowned squirrel corpses and lawn furniture floated past, I remembered my cataclysmic childhood bible studies and waded over to my neighbour’s garage to see if they had succeeded in selling the kayak.
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.