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Issue number seven




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rainbow ate the flood by Michael P. Workman

i made myself full of small holes last night, and it seemed like OKAY. it's sunny out, and on the street people stare at me. i am tired of walking in the bright bright day. i want to live under a faerie girl's bed.

she will give me a certain elixir. this elixir will make me strong enough to kill the monsters under her bed. then i will come out from there. i will have cuts.

"oh, such cuts!" she will gasp.

"self-inflicted," i will explain.

"but why?" when she asks this, a moth will land on her little white shoulder. she will pretend not to notice.

"bait. those monsters can smell faerie blood miles off. i lured those suckers in. i am a hero. give me golden kisses."

"yes, perhaps later, but back under the bed with you for now. i have to wash my hair."

she is too Precious, though, much too Precious to argue with. how Precious? her panties have been designated an endangered species. her glance is Haley's Comet. toes, piano keys. skin, skin to live in, die in. i will not let her love something hideous as myself.

but i am greedy. i am greedy and bestial and a thing of monstrous urges. i am a monster under the bed. they have gotten me. they have converted me. their ways are savage, but true--like rosethorns; like fire. i might rise--deep as dream--suck her to my touch; we'll be rainy cloth sacks of forever, sprinkling like sonatas on the bedroom floors of everywhere.

or something. maybe not. i hear her light breaths collide with the nightwind song, and though i am hungry--you do not know how hungry i am!--i drink my drink, and think of her blood, Down Below, think of her screams (what kind, oh what kind of screams would[will] they be?)

it's dark under here, and that's good.

michael p. workman is 20 years old and lives in Morgantown, West Virginia, with countless dogs and thousands of wives and children. Been published not enough. Is not, never was, never will be a student or teacher anywhere. Likes sex.

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