By Scott Garson
The first place I was ever dead was the kitchen. I dropped a glass of Hi-C, and it broke, and I was seeing how the red juice had been distributed in this minor household explosion. I was reading the angles of spray; that’s what I mean. Though I wasn’t using those words in my head. I was twelve years old. And I was thinking, What if this happens because I suffer a heart attack? I tried to arrange myself on the floor for the coroner. For an artistic touch, I left my arm extended toward the spot where I was sure the glass had hit and come apart. It was dramatic, like my final act had been to say, No! The Hi-C! Then I just waited. Who would discover me? I relaxed and kept my breathing to the deepest inner parts of myself. I opened my eyes and practiced not allowing them to work, seeing instead, as if on security camera, this child, this tragic victim of the cruelties being handed out at random in this world.
Scott Garson is the author of Is That You, John Wayne?–a collection of stories. He lives in Missouri.
MoonPark Review 