Teaser

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clang

 

By

 

Jason Brazeal

 

Tees

I'm looking up at a huge moth flapping against the moonlight through the crisp autumn air, reminding me of all the places I've never been. I want to be as free as that moth, feeling the coolness on my skin. I want to be the master of my own destiny. However, I'm not sure I would dive straight into the bug zapper.

I look down at my feet and kick a stone across the lawn. All those hours I worked today were for nothing. Every paycheck the government dips its hands into my pocket for one day's pay. Student loans are making me into an insane blind uncle of the State, every other week I can be certain I am missing its' birthday and shove fifty dollars into a scotch and tear-stained envelope so that it could go get its' hair done and then be clumsily groped by special interest groups.

As the moth's smoke trails away into the night, I wonder if I'm useful even as an amusement to someone else. I serve little to no purpose to anyone else other than myself, except in my capacity as a retail drone. Sure I'm great at finding books for people with little else but a title and vague description, but I'm slowly becoming more aware how hostile the general public can be to someone with no insurance, no girlfriend, a balding head, and a graying beard.

I speculate briefly if I could get high off of moth vapor. If that were true I could beg off going to James' party. I doubt anyone would want to be around someone depraved enough to get high off of a poor dying creature's smoking remains. Maybe I would become that moth, gain its' strength, and become powerful enough to rain down vengeance upon those who had mocked or betrayed me. Maybe I would just choke to death on the fumes.

Fuck it, you only live once, multiply that by whatever figure you're comfortable with if you're Hindi or some other religion with a basis in Karmic tradition. I take a look at the situation and decide that the best way to do it would be to remove the cover from the top of the zapper and hold it by the bottom so that I can get a good look at the little beasties as they kamikaze themselves on the divinely glowing blue light.

This is what I've been reduced to, attempting to get high on the vapor of creatures stupid enough to be killed by getting too close to what they want the most. The moment that pops into my head, I hold the thought closely to prevent the irony from escaping.

I question myself briefly about who would miss me if this were to end me. The list is very short. In fact, I can only come up with one person that would even bother to think about burying me; my mom.

What a life I've led, too poor to get high properly, too well off to qualify for government assistance. All the same, he who dares, wins, or dies choking from moth effluvia. I think if I can make this work, at least my pot budget can go towards something else.

I remove the top of the zapper and place it on the stoop and as I pick up the assembly I exhale everything in my body coughing and cursing at myself for twelve years of smoking. Here comes pay dirt, a fat juicy bug that's going to sizzle for minutes on end. Go time. As I bring my face closer to the cage I hear this buzzing drone I hadn't noticed before. That's the last thing I remember from that night.