Two Fictions
Ed Taylor

Shooting Memo 23

Play ball with me on this. We need more teeth, more skin, more danger. We need canines, character, and a man with big ears. And a vegetable king for the Egyptologists, even though they're hope-lessly outdated. "Clouds of razors lifting off from a refuge of leather, and out from Brussels comes Nash." Our audience knows, and they want that skeleton wrapped in celluloid. "And the waves curl in like dirty blankets." This will conclude the art part. Then we can eat.
Who's left at the end to tell the story? We need skiers by the dozen. Have the caterers whip up snow creme. Now enough with the sonnets. Rumba. De Ville. More flowers. How was Shakespeare's backhand? Get me?


Heavy and stiff you circle and circle, this now all you know. There is grit on your lips, the wool of air wet, tangled with insects above the dark humus in which you stop. Next thing known: someone at you with something sharp, digging bone by bone, and the sun of the future is merciless over the earth where you died.