Glow by Erik Fuhrer
Momma was a Kangaroo. Daddy was a mouse. Momma had a pouch to store the time daddy gathered from running up clocks. They loved me dearly: called me pink little flesharoo with a whiskery voice, rubbed my skin with linseed oil so it kept its fresh rosy tint.
We left our home in 1914 to escape the terrible clang of the new clocks that daddy couldn’t climb because they fell from the sky rather than rising from the earth and had their own cacophonic rhythm. Time was therefore disrupted and daddy out of a job.
So we all jumped in momma’s pouch and she paddled until her body stopped moving. Afterward, daddy hoisted me on his shoulders and propelled us with his whiskers. Until he too stopped moving.
After they both sank, I found a piece of glass to float on. It was bright, and green, and sharp, and sliced off my left ear when I climbed aboard. As I watched my ear slide away into the water, a terrible stench began to waft through the air. At first, I thought it must be what blood smells like. But it wasn’t coming from me. It was coming from the bay in the distance where I heard a faint impression of a whinny.
Once I reached land, the strong smell and frightful whinnying was glued to the air. Though I was afraid, I took comfort in the fact that the air was the color of my father’s whiskers and that the waste surrounding me had caused my belly to glow, paving a path for me through the rubble.
Erik Fuhrer received his MFA from the University of Notre Dame where he is currently a PhD candidate in English. His work has been published, or is forthcoming, in BlazeVox, Crab Fat, Dream Pop, Noble/ Gas Qrtrly, Pidgeonholes, and elsewhere.