The Leviathan in the ocean of my dreams was a large, white woman who fed on oil rigs; but she was much smaller through the optics’ distorted light. Naturally, I didn’t trust anything. I questioned the bullet’s physics, and it pleaded innocent to the court like a swastika hijacked by tyrannical symbolism.
Nature loaded the gun, it argued, and Nurture pulled the trigger.
In their furrow, rabbits sharpened bones and carved an alphabet into the wall as if trying to speak science or place judgment. They awakened the sound of bugles and put on their stove pipe hats.
S. T. Powell is a graduate of the Center for Writers at USM.