Three Fictions
Shya Scanlon

I'm or Is

The palm, the knuckle. A limper and an uncle. A certain temper. A no from blown. No from not one more an orange state of blown. An orange state of blowner than, bigger than. You're curling round to something. You're curling round, a rounder limp, a further wag, a lucky sweat. Now down that beat and down my breath, play me one for suckle, one for sign, and cast this heavy net into the black water black from heavy nets you've cast before.

Twist off, fire and

The spigot is not wet. That came from here. My back should feel but the ripening should break it. Feel that spigot. Press it. Ginger now, ginger. Little finger. In there lay it spread it. The ripening should break it. The wet will start becoming. Little wonder, then. Hold it yes right and squeeze. Our backs should feel so. Do they? Do they? If so than tell us where to see it. Adjust to show us, and adjust back. Adjust for making, making, making.


Sucking one-ing, two, two. Suck, and gather. Sew. Slick my pill, from two pills, piller than, pilled and pulled. Sew it pulling on and ask me, should pulling happen? Should pulled will one, two, and further sew? Beat us for the sucking two more ing. I do not tell this. I knew it inner. Outer when it spills a myth. So much the myth for pilling. See it on the table there. Spread it out. Rinse it before pulling. Wash before rinsing. Pull now, pull. Now pill. No more gather than together unbecoming I.