2014 Fiction- The Shooting Gallery, by Dominic Viti

Awake. You’re on your face. The pavement is wet and cold. Roll onto your back. Pebbles stick to your cheek. Don’t brush them off. Don’t move at all. Keep your eyes shut. Listen to the traffic. Breathe. Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. Your body hurts. The blisters on your feet, the bruises on your arms, the tooth rotting in the back of your mouth. Taste the rot in your throat—nothing like chicken. Sit up slowly. Open your eyes, peer through the blur. You’re home. The dumpsters your tables, the buildings your walls, the sky your roof. The vomit crusted over the cement might be yours. The needles are. Your watch and shoes are gone. Last night you sold them to stop time. You were dope sick, needed a hit. Someone jugged you in the neck. Maybe that man beside you. He, too, may have been inside you. Don’t know. Don’t want to. Lean over and do the thing. Too many minutes in one day. Too many seconds already. Shoot white into your black mood and vibrate pretty pictures in your brain.

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Prose, Poetry and Art