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HYMN FROM BOOMING GROUND

by

James Grinwis

It was dawn when we harnessed the penguins to the buggy board, marked our departure in the logbook, and began to trudge forward again. Bonvolio coughed into his aardvark mittens and ice sparkles cracked from his mouth to shatter against the frozen wall of air. Lyle¹s heroic ruminations, after five weeks of this, had long since sputtered into a delicate vessel of oceanic glass. ³Mush,² I mumbled, and the penguins, honking and griping as usual, waddled forth in unison against the gnarled nylon straps. Griswold groaned under his pack. He was starting to question a number of things, I knew: why we were here, so far off course, why the breakfast shakes were running out, why we¹d loaded nothing, not a single item, onto the buggy board. None of us understood, it was clear, watching day after day this five pound, foam rubber, aqua blue plate of the Caribbean surf slide easily across the ice, completely empty, pulled by a ragtag fleet of 76 penguins. Only Bonvolio seemed to know the answer, his gaze focused like a sunk anchor on the hard, sulfuric pulse of black-light beckoning from afar.






ABOUT THE AUTHOR


James Grinwis' flash fictions have appeared or are forthcoming in Quick Fiction, Pindeldyboz, Opium, Gettysburg Review, Snow Monkey, First Intensity, Fugue, and Paragraph. He lives in Amherst, MA.








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