“Strikes” by Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois

Acid burns the lining of my empty gut. My nickname is Easy, but it’s not so. An American woman says yes, says no, says maybe. I need a shot of whiskey.

A Mayan woman frowns me full in the face. A Bedouin woman’s eyes shine with tears. I have disappointed them, and myself. It’s time for my fiftieth reunion, but the Reunion Committee has hidden the venue from me, and me alone.

All my former selves are bowling balls with my face. I can roll them with deadly velocity and find everyone who has ever hurt me. I bowl nothing but strikes.


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