Hidden Valley by Ricky Garni 

I mumbled. Then she mumbled. Out in the street, they mumbled. In the streetcar, the driver, well, he mumbled. The car horns mumbled. The cat darted out of the way of the pick up truck, mumbling. There was an explosion. It mumbled. Who can explain all this? It’s this way: the city is underwater. Has been for a long time. And yet the people in the canoes are not mumbling. Actually, they are having a picnic. They are quite festive and gay and the sun is cheery and bright. They are drinking Campari and eating light cucumber treats that they bought from the grocer, a kindly fellow, who mumbled. But not his wife. She’s dead. Has been for a while now. Sad story. And she lives in a canoe.

Ricky Garni grew up in Miami and Maine. He works as a graphic designer by day and writes music by night. COO, a tiny collection of short prose printed on college lined paper with found materials such as coins, stamps, was recently released by Bitterzoet Press.‎