Bridge, by Alex Z. Salinas
Harry Munoz bled into his work. Divorced, self-blacksheeped, working underneath Old Parsons Bridge, he slashed and scratched ancient feelings into his canvases—red and black blurs of fire and corruption. Brickmold, rat flesh and the occasional tossed bottle shriveled his brains. Fischer thanked the flood of ’62 for gifting him the slimed black painting with a signature in rust. His mother slapped his child face for bringing home that grotesquery. Now Fischer executes his part. Bridges crumble, rebuild, rename. Cities stack upon boneyards. The terror leaks; his daughters can’t sleep. Higher calling—choice? The artist cuts smooth, practiced initials. Nods.
19/10/2019 07:55:56 am
I keep rereading this. Every sentence is a story in itself. Wow!
Comments are closed.