Three Fictions
Shya Scanlon


I'm both too busy and, when I'm too close, not moving. A little wait.A broken apartness of features. A tongue on broken teeth. I'm broken busy, too busier, {this part of the sentence was erased by you.} Thank you. I'm tracking it all right now, from a room that's smaller than time. It sees and seems me. It forms a little in. An in that says, see what falls completely. That says what slips a little, wait. Says wait? Says wait for this tool for getting. Says this is what I mean by resistance.

Speak now I'm handy

This passing car should calm me but it doesn't. It just keeps passing and that's why I'm like this. The keeping doing it part. The glass the paint. The revving up before I was here to hear. Still, I'm bigger from behind. I'm all in stages. I'll ask that car to enter me, passing what can pass for me, what passes me in stages, what calms and coddles me, and I'll break that revving engine, or else, I'll force my own gear through the floor, and shift.


Don't take me lightly, if ever, if a window for lightness, a break a book, or red text shines and plots me. Don't steer me queer; I'll Howl. Should a smaller break mean bothering? I'll ask that bothering to enter, without light, and become. I'll lost it: fill it with something lost, or scattered. I'll broke it: fill it with a number charged for nothing. Please, don't hold that way to me, to turn me, turn over me, hold the light so lightly. That red text wants to enter me, but does not ask me to read.