by William Cordray
Facing a mirror this morning I tell myself that I’m done with this pompadour. Then this pompadour scoffs to this belly that it’s through with this brain. So I wake my twin sister who is sleeping in the next room to remove all this body hair interfering with the wide world awake. She rises to the bathroom, unmolds homemade soap bars made from ancient rendered remains then squats in the bathtub and silently makes lather in kiln-fired clay cups from the third grade. I sit on the toilet, unfold my straight razors already stropped sharp, and rest them on arranged porcelain shards from the sink smashed the night before. She’s watching me and I think we think alike when this world will pause.
William Cordray was born in Houston, Texas and spends his time between Texas and the Philippines. His work has appeared in NANO Fiction and his longer prose rants can be found on his blog.