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Bruce by Alan
Bruce the possum was the kind of handsome that would make all the boys swoon. This particular quality to his being was enhanced every time he was on stage. Something about a microphone, a piano, three chords, and his brand of leveling truth, which was gutteral, sweet, and complex enough to liven curiosity’s prick. This worried Javier. They had been together now for six and a half years. Things were wonderful in a way. They were best friends. They were confidantes. They challenged each other intellectually. But the love had indeed fizzled as evidenced by the intermittent sex and the dimming physical charge. Bruce would spend more and more time in the garage, manipulating pedals and sifting through their “trash” for ebay prizes that would fund his travels. Javier felt for sure that this next tour would be the end. Bruce would be lost to him. Found by another. Javier’s therapist cautioned him against this kind of thinking. It will paralyze you, he warned. Go out. Do something. Treat yourself well, Javier. You deserve it. These words reverberated in his head as Javier wrote down what he thought would be a fitting ending on a few pages of his notebook and scattered them throughout the house while Bruce showered. And while Bruce was toweling off, Javier stepped out into the cool November air and considered his options. He wanted to run – down the block, to his parents’ house, to an old lover, to 10th grade, to anywhere, forever, never. Instead, he opened the garage door and paused. The wind swirled through the gossamer at the entrance while Javier said his name over and over again. Bruce. Bruce. Bruce.
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Possum Notes by Johanna
He came and went with the moon. Like the moon, he was still there when you couldn't see him. A trail of crumbs to closet recesses, the smell of wood shavings on winter clothes, creaking in the attic on windless mornings. When he returned, I opened my palms to him, offering what little I had. I stepped on dainty toes, left the lights on at night, cleaned voraciously. Gone again, I felt uneasy like tiny feet tread across my chest while I slept. I never knew which to prefer, the pale glow of midnight or the revelation of restless comets.
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Whispy Things Strewn by Lyle
Part I
Wispy felt trapped in his life. Feels trapped in his life. Had felt trapped in his life. Would have felt trapped. Did not. Etc. Detritus, he told himself. But he had grown accustomed to the detritus of his life, things strewn around him, things strewn behind him, long since gone but not. Things. Strewn. Goodbye, he said but he didn’t move. He tried sarcasm: Nice knowing you. Take care of yourself. But he was paralyzed through no fault of his own. Well, partially it was his own fault this linguistic parallel. Things had been strewn around so much through his life and he had done nothing to stop it. Things are strewn around so much. He strews so many things about his life.
Part II
...have an inaccurate temporal understanding of when an even occurred. It should always seem that they happened much later or much earlier than it actually manifested. Temporal-photographic memory means that the patient is not actually “living” while only “not-knowing” constitutes profitable post-conception. This in an of itself, however, presents several problems. Primarily, what should one use as a reference? Or put another way how can one be sure to know that one is misperceiving? One could use said temporal-photographic persons though this would perhaps be construed as cruelty, though on whose part is arguable considering that this person would have to be with the living at all times of day and conscious of everything that they perceive and this does not take into account interpretation of this stimuli, an entirely different debate. But I digress. Considering the temporal and spatial nature of possums...
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Best Possum by Forrest
The best possum of my life walked out on me, on us, while I slept, and now this life seems a tawdry cheat. I can see him with a half-full whiskey bottle on the table—our last fifth, as it were—scribbling, tasking, trying to find the perfect five words to write on a piece of notepaper to leave on the kitchen counter, and this is what my betrayed eyes find: “Cant figure you—outta here.” These are the sort of sentiments one expects of lesser possums, but not my best possum who made a private Xanadu out of Styrofoam coolers. In kind, I wanted a heart-rending testimony of his pain and anguish over the inner conflict of him abandoning me condensed into a syntactically precise vehicle of pure literary merit; instead, I get the cheapest De Profundis ever composed. And I let him wallow through my neighbor’s overripe trash can for this? No, this will not do. I cannot allow myself the indignity of having the best possum dismiss me that easily. There will be repercussions. The next possum of indeterminate ability to wander through my yard at night—I will ask him to have the Book of Ages clasped in his little pink paw. He will try as he might to please me, but he must never think he is the best possum by my bedside lamp.
