by Sean Ruane

Stumbling bus-wise, stretching obliquely; defracted through the bottom of a stolen beer glass, he swills the world, the moon, tripping over the dead-leaf-dropped minutes of past midnight, wearing the devil's creases in yesterday's pants; slowly, quietly, loudly, the world steadies itself against a building and stops. A swirling color wheel mocks him in every possible hue and slowly spins to a stop, revealing a crude shape peaking around the corners of a brilliant Technicolor laughter; the front of a bus emerges, beaming a bright horn and shining terrible sounds at his skull. Ahh, the amniotic safety of the bus; he writhes down the narrow aisle, head first, a breach birth in reverse, and falls into an empty seat. "Relax" says a cigarette ad. Good idea. Sleep.


Sean Ruane lives in Baltimore with his wife and two children. He is a graduate student in creative writing at Johns Hopkins University. His alter ego, Axel Finn, has a short story forthcoming in the Boston Literary Magazine.


roxanne said...

"...wearing the devil's creases in yesterday's pants..."


Harry said...

Wow, that's six pretty great sentences! Awesome!

Harry said...

I need to comment again because this little composition is just too good to go so ignored. This is a writers forum and not a competition but the lack of commentary on this excellent work makes me wonder about the readers. I for one am looking forward more.

harry said...