Death By Robin Wyatt Dunn

I wait for his heart to stop beating and then I thread my wintery hands through the escaping fog of his spirit to wrap my cold and sticky fingers round it. Its warmth and age excite me; I lick my lips.

I draw the organ out through the rib cage and bring it between my teeth. I bite down and taste the horror of his sudden departure, long years of comfort, the longing, the sadness, and the religion of his years in Portland, even some ancestral spice: music in the blood.

I swallow the rest of the heart whole; it is scrumptious.

Somewhere near I can hear a jumper, plummeting, to earth . . . I speed into the air with my balloons, grinning.

The wind delights my being; I spin midair, swirling down to the site of impact.

With my hand, I sweep the dashed brains from off the sidewalk and lick the remains up, slowly, tasting now:

The descent itself. The plummet, also a religion, of fervor and need, so fast it is overwhelming and I shudder, swallowing.

He was a happy man.

© 2014 Robin Wyatt Dunn

Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming during the Carter Administration. He lives in Los Angeles. He is a member of the intelligentsia. He holds three degrees, drinks coffee (lattes included), and thinks that being intelligent is a good thing and talking about ideas worthwhile. He is the kind of pinko egghead Joseph McCarthy wanted to flay alive and burn at the stake on the White House lawn. He knows that the McCarthys and the Pol Pots and the George W. Bushes of the world are always and forever eager and ready to slit his throat and dump him in a mass grave. This is why he has a wicked sense of humor.

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