I’m wearing flammable clothing. Also wearing the inflammable clothing. You can’t be too careful. Although it’s not posted, I’m driving the exact speed limit. It must have snowed last night, because I just passed a house with a square snowman. Man, I tell you, those kids have problems. I hope they get some help. Soon. You know what I always say? Don’t stand on your own shoelaces. A calamity yes, but never a catastrophe. Yesterday, I bought a special, left-handed ballpoint pen. I thought it would help with this damned metric system. This morning, I drank some truth serum. I hate that stuff. It turns out, I have nyctophobia, but it’s not covered by my insurance. Wouldn’t you know it? Of course, now I want to deactivate my pet, but I have to read up on it, first. I take back everything I ever said about jellyfish. Last week, during my visit to Disney World, I threw out all my dirty laundry. Apparently, I had made other plans. I just don’t understand it, my outfit looked so beautiful on the mannequin. She was wearing plaid pants and had a short husband. It kind of blew my mind. I ask you, how was I supposed to conduct a successful interrogation, with such a dim bulb? Sometimes my mattress gets so nervous, I just can’t get any sleep. But it’s not like I meant to shoot out those car windows. Don’t be alarmed. I can explain everything.
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California and lives in Boston. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee in fiction and a 2013 recipient of the Camroc Press Review’s Editor’s Favorite Poetry Award. Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Cease, Cows; The Baltimore Review; San Pedro River Review; Off the Coast; Third Wednesday; Boston Literary Magazine, and other publications. His chapbook of miniature fiction, Coyotes Circle the Party Store, can be read here.
Lead image: “butt-heads” (via Flickr user Lisa Ann Yount)