a poem! from a. a.!
Look out the Blokus Window with Alexandra Reinecke.
Some Internecine Conflict. Destructive to both.
“When afternoon was sputtering out in fallen leaves, in scarves pulled out of briefcases and in new beverages purchased by those more dependent on the black coffee sold in the little shop downtown…”
A.A. Reinecke’s latest fiction piece, on September and garages.
A personal look into vulnerability and a reflection on unfinished works of art.
A.A. Reinecke’s latest flash fiction piece.
Alexandra lulls us back into flash fiction.
Words and Photo by A.A. Reinecke The word “yard sale” draws, to most, an image of dust bottomed glassware; to the soft of mind it conjures prospect of silverware to reveal, with lye and metal wool, the initials of a president’s cousin or another man of once-removed significance. To John Brady, the worth of whose brain had been estimated—by a small, but by all means reputable newspaper—at the sum of four million and seventy five thousand dollars, it meant a particularly green afternoon in Poughkeepsie, New York. Karen’s was a good house with a wide lawn, a brick exterior and a tennis court made of imported clay. She had a folding table open on the cement of the front walk up; over her face sat the effect of hastened dissipation. “Brady,” she said, when he approached the lawn, “The million dollar brain.” Brady stopped at the table. His nephew stood at Karen’s legs with his six year old palms tight to her jean-clad calves. “Hey Bumby.” Bumby clung tighter. “Say hi, Bumby.” “Where’s Dad?” said Bumby. …
Like Ian Words by A.A. Reinecke It is cold like a prison like Antarctica gray and on the folded bit a dribbling of blood the shape of: Minnesota. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. It is noon now. That was breakfast. The room was a sideboard with bits of fractured glass. The windows spoke in tongues or through lust strained in milk. Q: Do you love me? A: I don’t know. Chai was sweet grain melted like the wetness of my mouth and your tongue tasted still like Ian and his carpet and his gin like a plow for planting prohibition. Q: The flask? A: No. My plastic cup membrane shed quartz like history nabbed from a headband. The 1920s. Q: You eating? Coffee? Anything? A: No. St. Paul. That’s where he’s from. St. Paul. Photo credit: Brandon Yung