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THE VISHNU ASSASSIN

by

Ron Morelli


They're burning the kiosks in Ann Arbor again.We walk through the crowd, not paying anyone, or thing, any particular attention. It isn't our goal to judge or to criticize, but rather to pass onwards through the crowd, as the blackened ash sweeps across our pale, wet faces, and stains us like blackened henna.

Someone is calling outwards, and Nick is the first to see the shades of last autumn's leaves on the sidewalk beneath our feet. There are a million ladybugs singing thick in the air, and the flag is snapping overhead. Someone is calling out our names.

Do you love me? Do you really love me? I ask you this time, and time again, but you never answer me with a word. You look at me, and nod, and I wonder if you're sincere, and I wipe the tear from the corner of your eye, and wish you good luck for no reason at all; just to wish you good luck, just to say something to you that's kind, and considerate, and in which I feel compelled to say out of doubt.

We step over a puddle, and I catch our reflection on the surface before our movement ripples it. A ladybug has drowned, and it is snowing ashes down upon us.

They are burning the kiosks in Ann Arbor again.







ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ron Morelli is a 1998 Graduate of Wayne State University with a BA in Liberal Arts from Detroit, Michigan. His work has appeared in Doorknobs and Bodypaint, Mississippi Review, and Cornell Lunatic.

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