I walked into the snowdrift and counted to ten.
Its heat was inexplicably Chekhovian, yet more
intense. Mapping ley lines is predicated upon
scale. The piano player sat hidden on a bench
behind an opaque screen playing an amalgam
of ragtime and swank post-Euclidean blues. It
was furniture music with a curious mouthfeel.
Everything seemed reclusive. Even the lamps
refused my doe-eyed entreaties and simply sat
there coldly glowing. Somehow the novitiates
had broken free again, inching across the deck
of the icebound ship with their rubber-handled
safety scissors and mossy unkempt eyes. Was
there anyone still among us who was oblivious
to the birds? Brilliant shrieking running things.
A survey was authorized and it was clear, none
of us understood what a remainder was or had
a clue about dancing in clogs, who was I kidding,
it was the clouds, it was always the clouds. We
formed a line then counted off in threes. Shirts
and skins and something else entirely. Behind
the screen the piano began playing an insistent
bass-heavy vamp, it had angles, and it sounded
like a fire that was nearly ready to make a move.
Jeffrey Little | Hot Plonk and Digit
Contents | Mudlark No. 77 (2024)