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Aliens, they stole mi hermano's brain


by James Lloyd Davis


         It wasn't overnight, this thing, but advanced in waves like inevitable drowning, unseen, unstoppable, cruel.  The baseball hat, the bubblegum cards, the incessant chewing, snap, snap, snap, snap.  You could see it, hear it, his fevered dilemma.  They'd taken his mind, filled it with numbers, RBI's, batting averages, players' names and seasons, ball clubs and parks. 
         He'd walk around in a daze, eyes fastened on something unknowable, irises like chocolate pinwheels on ball-bearing pupils, whirling in the winds of enthusiasm.
         “Boyohboyohboyohboy,” he'd say, “beisbol.”
 
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