Two Fictions
Ryan Griffith

Our Constructivist Past

He was off true, a bent antenna, tweaked. Walking on the wall. Shit dude, you look like shit, someone said. He remembered his mouth against a woman, trying to speak something into her body. Our constructivist past, someone said. Bullshit, someone said. In the morning he was sweating in a tub of ice and got up, combed his hair with a fork. The front door was unhinged and on the floor. A small boy was riding it like a canoe, paddling with a broom. He sat behind the boy and used his hands to help and they moved forward, slowly, in the dark current.


From his mouth the boy pulled a gleaming key and unlocked the door. He smelled like pancake batter, and his eyes were the suffering blue of water moving beneath a frozen river. Somewhere a television was pleading in Russian. Niepravda, it said, pazhalsta. He held my index finger and pulled me through the house. Sleeping in each room was a different woman I had once loved, and the boy and I stood and listened to their breathing.