From Her Fingers Drip Tiny Words

MICHAEL WAS DONE with the latest edition of the New York Review of Books. As usual, they had blatantly ignored every new book out there worth mentioning. This time around, they had even failed at making mainstream shit slightly interesting after applying a thick coat of cheap intellectualism. If he stopped reading, the next thing on the agenda would be cleaning the plate he'd used for breakfast. He shifted the biweekly publication to the right and looked down at the plate. Small yellow fragments of scrambled egg were scattered over the white ceramic. They were too small to stab with a fork and too big to be considered insignificant or be easily ignored. They bothered him. They bothered him immensely, for reasons he couldn't comprehend. If they had eyes, he knew they would be looking at him triumphantly, mockingly. Hatred filled his heart. He went back to the NYRB and flipped the page. 

The noise of the stiff paper reminded Michael of an explosion. There are explosions every day in other parts of the world, he thought, but never here, never where it matters. The page settled. The house was suddenly too quiet. Impossibly quiet. Someone always had to flush a toilet somewhere in the building, except when it was really necessary. He wished he had a pet so it could fart at moments like this. He coughed, cleared his throat even though he didn't really need to, and tried to fart himself, but to no avail. The lack of sounds fed his solitude, turning it into a bloated carcass that floated inside his chest. He had to do something.           

Swallow a pill.           

Eat a bullet.             

Gargle acid.           

Write a novel.           


None of the articles were worth a second reading, so he did something he'd never done before and read the classifieds.           

The third entry caught his eye with a sharp hook of words. He read it once and immediately read it again.

                        EROTIC EXPLOSION. Let me blow your mind, your ul-

                        timate erogenous zone. Provocative talk with educated

                        beauty. I love books. No limits.           

There was a phone number at the bottom of the ad. Michael couldn't remember the last time he'd used his phone, but he kept it charged at all times. He closed his eyes and imagined the woman behind the words.           

She would have a sweet, clear voice and perfect enunciation, like honey over a few razors in high definition. She would be tall. Incredibly tall. And leggy. She would have eyes so green they would put an emerald to shame. And have big tits. She had to have big tits. Big, round, perky tits she would lovingly refer to as June and July. She would have a PhD in contemporary indie lit and the kind of brain that intimidates men.          

From Her Fingers Drip Tiny Words continues...
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About Gabino Iglesias

2 2
Gabino Iglesias was born somewhere, but then moved to a different place. He's worked as dog whisperer, witty communications professor, and ballerina assassin. Now he hides near a dumpster in Austin, Texas, where he works as a freelance journalist, writes weird stuff, reviews books, and impersonates a PhD more student.
  3 months ago
There's no truth in advertising. Loved the story and unexpected ending.
  3 years ago
It sounds like he took the pill. "like honey over razor blades." I really enjoyed this!
  3 years ago - edited
Yikes! Quite the ending! But I quite enjoyed it all the way through Gabino. The pigeon gargling sandpaper line is fantastic!

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