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J. Marcus Weekley

and it screams at me like I've just dropped a bowl of cherries on the baby. But the baby doesn't notice because he's formulating the next big thing: sub-atomic shakes in flavors like wet couch, heartsick, desperate lives. Am I a father? What does licorice need with me?

I don't remember impregnating anyone. You'd think I'd remember the exchange, at least the shower after. But I don't, and the licorice is pissed because I've forgotten to put the seat down again and my car won't start, it won't start, and I'm late for work. The licorice in the rearview mirror chides me for being tardy, but it points out the seals escaping from the aquarium, the political aquarium down the road from Pizza Hut. Am I a father? Why the constant dripping from the licorice?

I live alone with my art squared and the cans and cans and cans of cream of mushroom soup. I don't do drugs. I've never spent the night in Brazil. I don't even own a razor. I'm trying to back out of the licorice accusations and I can't--it's my boy. I don't even remember his name. I think I'll execute.

The licorice harps from my computer terminal, about how the mother must be consulted before the baby is put down, about how the President of Pizza Hut will want to know why I killed the next big thing. But I continue typing out a memo to the guy in copying, and I feel like a spy. If I don't write out my life soon, the baby will get me. The licorice will tell all.

Who is the mother? Will she will she will she remember the diapers, the pacifier, the guillotine? When can I write? Licorice moans under the kitchen sink, like a dragon in labor behind a blue curtain. I don't want to feed the boy. I won't. I can't. And shut up already, about the dirty bowels. Tomorrow, I'll kill him. Tomorrow, I'll be full.


Marcus currently lives in Lubbock, TX. He is also a visual artist and you can check out his work at He used to be in love with a guy named Rob and that wasn't too cool.

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