Jeffrey McDaniel
After a long day of stitching up a forcefield between us and those bastards with the palsied genitals and their crossd-eyed deity, I return to my capsule and unwrap my uniform twirled around me like a green mummy banner. Of course, I want my mummy, but she's not here. How I miss her terra cotta lips, glistening over the crib when I was an infant. Has it come to this? Night after 70-hour night on the Martian battlefield. I step into the shower and let a stream of crushed meteors nebulize over my body. Ah, dinner I think, as the ruthless madrigals sing in the distance. I towel myself dry, dropping my eyes from the mirror that bores into me, the mirror that seems to read my thoughts. I joggle my knapsack of limbs to the mess hall. Screw string beans. Buzz off spinach peddler. I grab a julep. Suck it down. Let it joggle my imagination. I reach for the blackberries, ruthless in their puckered sweetness, when what appears to be a human tongue flickers out of the whipped cream and lashes me across the wrist. Yes, this is what
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