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Pinky Thinker Press Issue 9

Soup Can Magazine Issue 13

Everybody was poison. The air was quiet for a while. His skull didn’t resume his warning. He was taken with her.

His funeral, always permanent. It is just an illusion. Now, when I myself am dead, I simply go on. Billy had quit. I hadn’t noticed.

All this responsibility. Meanwhile, he was doing nothing. Don’t lie to me. I know you. Father, father, father what are we going to do ? I wanted to know.

The little black organ had thirty-nine keys and two stops. It was playing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” It was Sunday morning. Billy had gathered a congregation who was alive and who was dead. They were all theoretically dead now. What an adve

He had no feet. Billy had Lost his way. The bullet was polite. Chance was his marksman.

It fired. I killed everybody but the unhappy, the unpopular, stupid and mean. I killed no one. I was innocent.

They bristled. Savage affection makes a wound that won’t close up. What do you know? What the hell was true?

He was trying to construct a life that made sense. Ten minutes had gone by without any luck. There was no growth in dancing— step, slide rest—step, slide, rest. Billy moved on. Good-bye.

ⓒ Sawyer Conlon 2025

sawyer@sawyerconlon.com

(973) 980-0558