Issue Thirteen
- Seven Prose Poems by Charles Simic
- A Portrait of Progress by Daniel Flores-Guadiana
- In the Van by Laurence Davies
- Blue Ronel Running by Sandra M. Jensen
- Shapely by Wim Hylen
- Shadows on the Wall by Mark Budman
- Dreams & Abductions by James Foreman
- Jill and the Octopus by Rob McClure Smith
- Termix by Blumfeld 2001
- The Long Fragment Preceding Sufficient Expiation by Stefanie Freele
- Lucky Night by Saeed Tavakkol
- Detected by rovesciato
- The Parrot by Ezra Kyrill Erker
- Impossible Hunger by Eruch Ernst
Editors:
Alice Whittenburg
G.S. Evans
www.cafeirreal.com
editors@cafeirreal.com
This issue went online
February 1, 2005
copyright 2005 The Cafe Irreal
all rights reserved
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irreal (re)view #4
Detected
by rovesciato
he man to your side turns suddenly as you are walking past, traveling from no specific point of embarkation to no intended destination, and calls out your name, quite brusquely even though you are only a few yards away. You stop and turn toward the man with some expectation and catch his eye, but he looks at you strangely, calm and yet intent upon his object, such that you cannot fathom his purpose in fixing you before him. It is but another moment which informs you that the man has no cause to be in the possession of your name, but this unaccountable knowledge, coupled with his divine manner, causes you to wait as he looks past you. When he glances back you can feel that a wrath has come into his eye. As you begin to stammer, however, he turns and hurries away.
When you look round you see a few people loitering by a storefront, and a few more walking by in either direction, in conversation, or something like contemplation, and all very much unconcerned with the event, the calling out of your own name. They should be concerned, however, for the plaza has changed. The air is brighter and feels heavier, the fluttering of leaves has slowed despite a rise in the wind, and everything has come under a hush although you can hear a loquacious woman on the far side talking about the lottery, and the ripping of cardboard from the ally behind the shops.
Do you feel it too, but no one has stopped to ask, and, indeed, the sensation for you as well has begun to wear off. As you turn to continue your walk a man passes by and gives you a nod . . .
You walk over, at last, and take a seat on a bench, but still the hours pass and there has been no sighting of you . . .
rovesciato washes dishes in Corvallis, Oregon, perhaps on account of his failure to pick up his diploma, which has since either spoiled or been betrayed as SPAM. He has, however, obtained an honorary doctorate in Discorgruity for enjoying a bit of punk rock with his polyphonic mass, and has won the permission of the editors to post that document here. His short short, "One Domestic's Theology," appeared in Issue #6 of The Cafe Irreal.
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story copyright by author 2005 all rights reserved