with a Fairy Tale in which
I’m Mostly Eaten
The wolf eats me belt-buckle and all. Toenails and all. He pauses only when biting into my steel-plated head. He curses, says he has a steel plate in his own head. Ah, so this is the wolf I struck with a nine iron or scrap metal rod a few years back. (I’m head, neck, and genitals at this point, so forgive my lack of clarity.) I tell him the story. We laugh. His laugh has more phlegm—my blood and fat. He coughs hard, re-chews, swallows again.
Rather than polish my plate, which won’t reflect anything because your breath will steam it up, you should collect several others. Paint them black and learn to walk upright. You’ll never learn to walk properly, so you’ll look elderly or disfigured. People will assume the black plates are a top hat and come to offer assistance, say hello, or usher you back to the nearest nursing home. It’ll be like a buffet because most of the world exists in a vanishing point.
He finishes eating me except for my genitals. I’m offended, but what can genitals say? Especially to a well-dressed elderly fellow who staggers, lost.
Jason Fraley works as an investment advisor and compliance officer in Columbus, OH. In his spare time, he is an argyle sock. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Forklift Ohio, No Tell Motel, The Hat, The Pedestal Magazine, Caketrain, and Fifth Wednesday Journal. He has a mini e-chap, Apropos of Nothing, online at Gold Wake Press.