By Christie Wilson
Another problem was irony. It permeated the air and exhausted the people by worming into their conversations, their gestures, their thoughts. Smirks and snide comments, knowing looks and muttered words – these were the avenues, and irony 
rode them all, conquering and destroying, demolishing sincerity until it lay so broken it could only be named as sentiment from the past. So when a child found the eye of a stuffed animal, still rimmed in mangy yarn-like fur, her mother walked it straight up the museum steps. Tears on her face and child in tow, the mother relinquished it to the curator, who rubbed the polished vision with his thumb, gave a solemn nod, and turned to find it a permanent glass home.
Christie Wilson lives in Illinois. Her work appears in Atticus Review, CHEAP POP, Driftwood Press, New World Writing, and Pidgeonholes among other publications. Visit her at www.christie-wilson.com or follow her @5cdwilson.
MoonPark Review 