by J. BRADLEY

The glasses in the children’s hands return the liquid to the pitcher. Brick by brick, the wall repairs itself. The mortar falls away from my face, body, the pitcher in my hands. The director yells “Action.”

I am told by the production assistant not to tell the child actors they are drinking my blood. The sugar returns to the measuring cup. The red powder returns to the blue packets. The level of water in the pitcher lowers, disappears.

Flicked ashes fall upwards; the cigarette rebuilds. The match head snuffs its own flame. The match reconnects with the rest of its family.

The wall repairs itself. Drywall falls from my face and body. “I have to go to work, ” I don’t say over the shouting.

 

⊂ ⊃

 

J. BRADLEY runs the  Central Florida based reading series/micro chapbook publisher There Will Be Words. Follow J. Bradley on twitter @iheartfailure.

 

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