The Centilogue

Short Fiction by Christopher Peterson

Month: June, 2013

Gravel Heart

Staring out my window I see

A muddy lake of rainwater standing

Still in the gravel lot

Heart-shaped and surrounded

By deep vinyl record grooves made

By tires coming and going but gone

The robins bob and peck peaked in the dry air

And boldly, quickly, lands a cardinal

A drop of blood leaking from a rippled ventricle

Bathing and drinking as the robins look on

Inquisitive, ubiquitous, inculcated to stare

At the crimson crown atop the invader

Who, hearing his mate call from up on high,

Leaves the heart emptier, drying in the sun

Breaking through the midday clouds

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Honesty is the Best Policy, or Surviving an Apocalypse

The George Washington Virus was a manmade bug that attacked the brain, destroying our ability to lie. Some well-intentioned Occupier snuck it out of the CDC and released it on a bus in Midtown Atlanta as a giant middle finger to the banks. What he didn’t realize was that the world needs liars. Families tore each other limb from limb over dinner. Neighborhoods became warzones. After days of rioting they closed the airports, but it was too late. Cities burned. A day after it hit D.C., the nukes launched. It only took honesty four weeks to burn the world alive.

A Mere Roar

Twitching eyes transfixed on opaque and blurred edges in the mercurial glass he transcribed tomes of secret mythologies with each shifted gaze into something codified yet untranslatable on the simulacrum before him. Subtly and gradually agitation and odium overtook him in cascading waves lapping a desolate shoreline before the depths of the deltas of the dilapidated doppelganger before him. This most familiar façade had the recognizable remnants of resentment and resignation buried haphazardly beneath the sinewy sifts of sagging flesh that once held hope and promise and fair judgment. This is how I look. A wrack racked with sublime sadness.