Fruit
Flies
When you left I stayed in bed, the light bulb softly hissing
and my heart going like mad, a flywheel on the verge of breakdown. Half asleep,
the dream had me on a stretcher, my pants leg cut to the crotch, flitters of
skin about my femur, and the sky filled with battalions of ducks in awkward “V”
formations, flying low over the countryside. The medic made a joke about not
having a leg to stand on and I screamed something about his being a failed
comic. After a quick lunch of baby carrots and iceberg lettuce I slipped down
the road to the liquor store and stocked up on a dozen bottles of Old Rasputin
and a copy of the Irish Times. Back in the apartment I could still smell your
perfume, the jasmine notes suffocating the fruit flies that were devouring the
few peaches left in the bowl.
CP
James
Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado ranch in
Carpinteria, CA. His work has appeared in the New Orleans Review, Word Riot, Metazen, Necessary Fiction, FWriction and
other fine places. His short fiction collection, Blood
a Cold Blue, was published by Press
53.
Always compelling, always poetic and visionary, is James Claffey
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