Two Fictions
Philip Brooks


"One discovers that the true lives of our feathered brethren," wrote Audubon on his deathbed, "are no more richly embroidered, more burdened or blessed with implication, than those lived by Man, Dog, Horse, Tortoise, Muskrat, or the Inevitable Pig. . . ."
Having scribbled these words, the author used the glow of his last candle to cast a hand-shadow of a winging crane upon the ceiling.


Night falls in Dad's closet.
Neckties and belts dangle from their hooks.
Now the suits rustle, raise their arms. Empty sleeves flag.
Messages meant only for his assembled shoes. Marching orders, verdicts.