by Ray Succre
The knickknack boy tumbled his tongue for a spurious treat: coconut fluff on a health bar. The mothers had keeled into bloodline talk. The air ran for hill-stops. The floor rode his eye to the reaches and the sky ran over into cloudy brambles. So he ran hard to play, horsing and beating the play into others, and the play was vigorous, the day was flush. "Hello, you are where?" the twilight mothers crooned, but he had for them no report, and hid, little tongue beneath his breaths like a crushed snail.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries hard.