Thirtyeightmississippi by Evan Anderson
I sometimes imagine that the sky is a giant roll of toilet paper and laugh. Same as I sometimes imagine that the monster slobbering under my train set table is a pile of toys tangled like intestines from those movies where the monster is cut across the belly and its insides spill out like the manicotti Mom makes when she’s having one of her good days. Same as I know that I can hold my breath for onemississippitwomissisippithreemississippi all the way to thirtyeightmississippi.
I run from my bed, across the lava, and into the closet which I imagine is a water tank filled with green bubbling water and the drunk man banging on the door is an alien tapping on the glass trying to decide if I’m alive enough to eat or just drop back down to earth and forget about.
Most days I’m alive enough for him, but I never stop practicing.
Evan Anderson lives and writes in a bowl of a city, surrounded by swamps and brimming with stories and music. He has work published in Gone Lawn, Cleaver Magazine, Cease, Cows, and others. He’s online at evanmichaelanderson.com.