'But This is not a Story' by Tommy Dean

They say you can’t start a story with a character waking up, with them crying, or knowing so much about themselves that they would never act against their own interest. But what if this isn’t a story, what if it’s a string of beautiful, covalent adjectives and adverbs, that sound of the bell of a heart chilled by the lack of notice, for him waking, for the first gasp of acknowledged breath in the morning, for the spill of cigarette smoke that blends with an unpolished sunset, that blends wit the smog of molten metal harvested down the street, the one that floods every time that it rains, and we let the kids wade in up to their waists, shoeless, and naïve to the dangers that swirls between their toes, that nature will bite and thrash, to survive in the droughts to come? Don’t ask questions, don’t dwell into the guts of anxiety and fear and loathing, and let us guess and judge, so that we, the dear reader, can feel a moment of mercury on the tongue, that quicksilver succor that keeps us projecting and never reflecting, for the light can never enter, otherwise it would bleach us to bone, and from bone to dust, to earth returned, and we have just awakened, and refuse to sleep, for we can’t admit to ourselves or to others one more death, for the sunsets only appear if we are a witness, the cast across our pupils the victory.  

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Tommy Dean is an associate literary agent with Rosecliff Literary, the author of two flash fiction chapbooks and a full flash collection, Hollows (Alternating Current Press, 2022). He is the Editor of Fractured Lit and Uncharted Magazine. His writing can be found in Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and elsewhere. Find him at tommydeanwriter.com.