A Television Abortion
Dave De Fina
When The Fellow With Brimming Sights received his anger, it coalesced against the backdrop of a frighten-cold night. Anger through memory.
He was in the middle of the road watching a car continue after passing. He paused, head beginning to bristle from just underneath bone and cell, bristling outwardly towards the scalp. A closely clustered burst of thick blood punctuated his brain, winding red pearls—cluster of burrs. He continued on with a pronounced hesitance towards a concrete bench. Leg over leg draped, hands at sides dropped. Swirling around the red cluster began a blurred string of memories converted into television quality picture. He closed his eyes, the bench cold beneath knees.
After he received anger, he sat to enjoy it. Through memory.
‘This is my floor. How are you? Come on in and have a seat.’
Blood jets out with the sibilance. The mouth closes again having filled the orange container. She lowers her head to continue on the floor, arm dipped into container. / / /
The Fellow With Brimming Sights opens his eyes and looks towards his knees; the bench no less cold than before. A plane flies above with a silver chute behind it. The blood in his brain has begins to dry. The halo of television memories continues. The column of muscles in his neck tightens and as he drifts back, the smell of sprinkler water, which has lightly imbued the air, inflects his thoughts.
The side door is open; he enters. Inside, the darkness is split solely by a single beam from the four-squared pane. He can see nothing; a splash hits the pane. From the corner a voice begins-
‘You are nine and your swimsuit will not protect you forever’
His eyes try but cannot discern any form from the corner.
‘Drink the water from the sprinkler and your life will be paid for.’
He lifts his foot and starts towards the door; silt from the garage has painted his soles, grainy. Every track he makes is recorded. / ../div>
On the bench, beneath its snare, a quick breath of flowered air floats. Television is a memory cue, not the actual memory.
A story not a gift.
Each building was an insignificant idea and the letters that formed it, leading to the hallway, near the carpet limit, near the foot of the ghost who held out her hand, candy within, green and alluring. She smiled and blew perfume currents. That’s when he learned the confusion of exchange.
‘You can’t kill emptiness with dying buildings’ shot the ghost, throwing the candy to him with small contempt, razing a building made of red and green blocks, ‘and no one is going to remove the war of your enemies like me, remember that.’
He withdrew the candy and spied the ghost, her lipstick shining through a white sheet, deep burst behind cloud cover. He unwrapped the candy and licked it once covering it well with one pass before laying it on the windowsill. He liked to watch the ants group and feed. The cake was round with moribund candles; each one shot him dead with hope. Uneaten and laminated in the dark fridge. You get one wish, but don’t tell, don’t ever tell. / ../div>
When The Fellow With Brimming Sights felt the nauseating tickle of his brain’s reformation, he acquired anger and sat on a bench to enjoy it. It struck immobile the imagery from actual memory and replaced it with television brilliancy. He thought of situations. He thought of people. He thought that he must never return home, must never find mail, must never father a child, never employ or be employed, never love or allow the effacement of perso