It doesn’t take much to become days of mourning. This world provides plenty of opportunities to convert one into days of mourning. Then days of mourning becomes weeks of mourning. Months of mourning. Years. But it begins with days of mourning. And at heart, remains days of mourning that extends into weeks, months, years.

Days. Numbered. Repeated. Metronomic. Needle and prick, prick and needle. Sleeping Beauty has become a lab rat for disease control. Anima being the worst disease of all according to the membered members of the Ding Dong Society. You had to laugh. And she did. Same as she cried. What else was there? Laughter, tears. Rivers were born of such elements. I wasn’t always this old. Or this young. When I was a child, through the bars of my crib I saw tiny men marching toward my crib, every night. They were going to get me. They never reached me. That almost is the worst. Think about it. Put yourself in my mind’s shoes. They’re going to get you. They’ll never reach you.  

About John Biscello

Originally from Brooklyn, NY, writer, poet, spoken word performer, and playwright, John Biscello now lives in Taos, New Mexico. He is the author of three novels: Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale, Raking the Dust, and Nocturne Variations, and a collection of stories, Freeze Tag. His fiction and poetry has appeared in: Art Times, nthposition, The Wanderlust Review, Ophelia Street, Caper, Polyphony, Dilate, Militant Roger, Chokecherries, Farmhouse, BENT, The 555 Collective, Instigator, Brass Sopaipilla, The Iconoclast, Adobe Walls, Kansas City Voices, and the Tishman Review. His blog--Notes of an Urban Stray--can be read at Broken Land, a Brooklyn Tale was named Underground Book Reviews 2014 Book of the Year.
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