by Eryk Wenziak
Hypnagogia
The table's pants are long. Too long. Leaving it unable to run far. Nor fast. I sew it a new pair. A shorter pair. A pair the length that when worn would prevent me from catching it. I approach the table from behind. Clap my hands. Warn of my presence. I give it the newly sewn pants. The first leg in. Then the second. Followed by the third and fourth. I pull a gift from my leather bag: a checkered, green and white flag. The table grabs it and runs off. Disappears into the horizon's curvature. It will be waiting for me. Many years ahead. At a finish line drawn in fishbone powder. It will wave the checkered flag upon my arrival. Congratulate me on my endurance, while remembering to throw in a few lines of ‘appreciation' for my generosity ‘all those years ago'—thanks ignored at the time. But I always understood the table's intentions. It was young. (And the wood it was carved from was also young.) I will pick up the flag and trace a figure eight into the high sky. Like a child burning their name with a sparkler. The figure eight will fall on its side. Become infinity. But this time I'm sure I'll never see another finish line. And my sense is the table will already know that, and will no longer wait. No longer draw a chalky line. No longer give me thanks.
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Quirky little piece from 52|250 (Week 49) that was just published again in their "Fiftytwo" issue.
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I LOVE this. We are all chasing that UR table through the world, aren't we? This is lovely, smart, and wacky all at the same time.*
Nice piece, Eryk. Such smart, quirky writing that's thoughtful and fun at the same time--I often have trouble getting that balance right. Fav*
Thanks, Jen. I appreciate you reading it!
What a great piece. So full of surprises, strong, fresh, all presented at a great pace. Vivid imagery, wonderful details, rhythm rocks. And what a killer close. Love all. Big fave.