When you left I stayed in bed, the light bulb softly hissing and my heart going like mad, a flywheel on the verge of breakdown. Half asleep, the dream had me on a stretcher, my pants leg cut to the crotch, flitters of skin about my femur, and the sky filled with battalions of ducks in awkward “V” formations, flying low over the countryside. The medic made a joke about not having a leg to stand on and I screamed something about his being a failed comic. After a quick lunch of baby carrots and iceberg lettuce I slipped down the road to the liquor store and stocked up on a dozen bottles of Old Rasputin and a copy of the Irish Times. Back in the apartment I could still smell your perfume, the jasmine notes suffocating the fruit flies that were devouring the few peaches left in the bowl.
James Claffey hails from County Westmeath, Ireland, and lives on an avocado ranch in Carpinteria, CA. His work has appeared in the New Orleans Review, Word Riot, Metazen, Necessary Fiction, FWriction and other fine places. His short fiction collection, Blood a Cold Blue, was published by Press 53.