p e t e r    j u r m u



Her foot was hooked like a wire egg ladle. Where it went, when you walked her around: behind your ankle, at the tendon. Three legs between you.

She was so pleased, you say she said, that if you’d buy her a dress you could take her out strangling, if you liked. For her that would be an honor.

The church’s nose stuck out of the ground, you were driving us toward it in a car that was paid for. You felt good, so I felt good, which I guessed was the point of the exercise.

Six years later we finally arrived at our nostrils and both of us had tipped over the edge of looks. I still felt pretty good, you seemed ready for the blood.

The horseshoe I dropped into a hollow stump landed on a sac of spider eggs.

Our crooked fishing stick touched steel, quivered and hooded and smeared itself with silk. I forsook everything and ran home, that place of laughter.

He had been saving up spit and at the nanosecond it struck me it became a globe. Two children stood next to a bulldog and clapped their hands.

While I was under the faucet a lump slid into my pocket: the dog’s brain, covered with little prints. The children ran away, shrieking. I broke all four of their arms.



PETER JURMU lives in Boston, Massachusetts. His fiction has appeared in Nashville Review, and he edits for the journals Redivider and Catch Up.

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