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9/18/2022

by DIEGO LAMA (translated by ROSE FACCHINI)

Tweet by wonderferret | Flickr

It had been night for several hours. Lucio and Arturo were sitting silently in the big, deserted park.

Lucio finished his bottle of wine. He hurled it a long way off, toward a bush, and missed.

“Fuck you,” he muttered, but not to the bush. Then he stretched out on a bench, covered himself with a newspaper, and closed his eyes.

“Night,” he mumbled to Arturo.

“Fuck you,” Arturo responded. Lucio was already sleeping.

For a few minutes, Arturo stood watching the stars, listening to the sounds of the park: a faraway cricket, leaves rustling in the wind, Lucio snoring. Then, all of a sudden, a blinding flash illuminated the hedges. Arturo looked up while Lucio continued to snore.

An enormous golden spaceship descended from the sky, landing gently in front of the bench. A large hatch opened and an all-powerful alien emerged.

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The Experiment

9/11/2022

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by TIM HILDEBRANDT

Snoozing by Thad Zajdowicz | Flickr

I have no complaint. Boredom cannot survive variety. The self that I claim is a motley collection of mysteries, and for that, I'm grateful. But one aspect of my life is becoming more trouble than it's worth. Going to bed every night is the curse of my existence. I've had to endure this peculiar routine for 75 years. Half of my life's story has passed while I slept. Dreams are the singular products of this activity, but they vanish with the sunrise. It's hard to imagine a more efficient waste of time.

The bed itself is a raggedy pile of blankets, wadded-up sheets, messed-up pillows. A sight as welcoming as the sail locker in a sunken ship. Unconcerned with bed bugs, fleas, or skin lice, I lay down. Because it's warm, nothing exposed to the cold room but my face. My feet create a tent for my toes, relieving them of the weight of many old quilts. My pillow headrest completes the cockpit, primed for departure into dreamland. Holding still, I regulate my breathing, close my eyes, and sleep. Presumably, I am unconscious, dead to the world. I am not aware of myself. Then, a mysterious awareness of another world becomes a dream. Sometimes sharp and well-rendered, more often vague and indistinct.

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The Experiment

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