What I Write
At work, a man gets promoted. He grows three inches in height. Wondering if there’s a correlation between the promotion and the growth spurt, he works harder, receives another promotion, grows another three inches. So there is a correlation, he thinks. He continues working hard, snatching up promotions and inches. With more promotions, more height. Also money, which he uses to buy taller clothes. This, he thinks, is a symbiotic relationship, and by the end of the year he is twelve feet tall. A national sensation, he is invited on talk shows and receives endorsements and meets the president. Of course, there are drawbacks. He can no longer ride in taxis or fit in airplanes. To take the subway, he has to kneel on the floor like a penitent. He hates that look, so he walks, even in winter, his massive stride making up for lost time. He no longer fits in his apartment, so he rents a warehouse loft with twenty foot ceilings in the meatpacking district with endorsement money. And when that is too small, a disused airplane hangar in Queens. Everything, he thinks, can be accommodated. By the end of the next October he’s the size of the Chrysler Building. The public sees what’s going on. They consider revoking the man’s promotions and endorsements for their own safety, but curiosity overpowers them. Spring. The man knocks over the Chrysler Building accidentally. This causes a domino run of skyscrapers from midtown to Battery Park and the deaths of thousands. The man flees to Wyoming, causing mid-Richter earthquakes along I-80. He eats the pine forests of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and drains Lake Superior to satiate his enormous appetite, imagining all the while how he used to drain shot glasses in Chinatown bars with friends. Friends who he hasn’t seen in ages. Or has seen but from hundreds of feet above. He collapses from exhaustion. The next morning, when he stands up to stretch, his head exits the atmosphere. The air rips from his lungs and his heart stops. Before the moment of death, God appears and says, “Whoa, good job,” and with that final almighty accolade, the man’s feet become two New Jerseys and his head stuffs itself in the moon.
|What I Write||
I write magic realism, sf, fabulism, and slipstream.
Stories appear or are forthcoming in Spartan, Nymphs, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Oddville Press, and elsewhere.