Excerpt from No Man’s Brooklyn:
   I put on my headphones, turned on my music and hit shuffle. I eased into Nina Simone’s version of “I Shall Be Released.” I wondered about the state of Anya’s soul, and then thought about her body and where it might be buried.
   Anya’s funeral had occurred and I hadn’t been there. Did she look pretty? Had they falsified her with one of those frigidly beautiful funeral makeovers? What color dress did they display her in? Were her hands folded neatly across her chest? Anya could never keep her hands still. They were the primary extensions of her whirlwind personality. Death had stilled the whirlwind.
   I had been at my mother’s funeral. Or some part of me had been there. Another part of me had been absent. All I remember is that she seemed waxy and unreal. Like the plastic fruit people put in bowls. Ever since then, whenever I see plastic fruit in a bowl, I think of my mother, my mother’s neatly arranged corpse, and I feel a little queasy, a little sad.
  When my grandmother died I didn’t attend her funeral. I was in L.A. and didn’t make the trip back. I didn’t see the point in attending. We hold secret funerals in our heart all the time. Between the living and the dead, the silent communion never ceased.


About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, performer, and playwright, John Biscello, has lived in the high-desert grunge-wonderland of Taos, New Mexico since 2001. He is the author of four novels, Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, Nocturne Variations, and No Man’s Brooklyn; a collection of stories, Freeze Tag, two poetry collections, Arclight and Moonglow on Mercy Street; and a fable, The Jackdaw and the Doll, illustrated by Izumi Yokoyama. He also adapted classic fables, which were paired with the vintage illustrations of artist, Paul Bransom, for the collection: Once Upon a Time, Classic Fables Reimagined. His produced, full-length plays include: LOBSTERS ON ICE, ADAGIO FOR STRAYS, THE BEST MEDICINE, ZEITGEIST, U.S.A., and WEREWOLVES DON’T WALTZ.
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