Fiction

Thinking Lump
on a Port
by Royce Icon

I fall apart and decompose in the silent breaths of a port in New Hampshire. People say that being dead is no fun, but I must say I disagree. Never have I felt more free, more jubilant. I see nothing but hollowed eyes and empty thoughts on the port, my eyelids growing to extreme lengths. It has become hard to see because of said eyelids, but every now and then, (or then and now?) I see a naked child or two. The nudes are always quite yellow, and somewhat faded looking, as if they were an ancient text from the past. Maybe they are ancient. Maybe they aren’t really there. Who knows? I don’t know, I’m just the remains of an impotent stock broker.

My eyelids keep growing and what is left of my lips secrete a smelly orange fluid that reminds me vaguely of the way my mother would give me enemas daily when I was a child. And this of course got me to thinking about the way my father would chew up my food and then regurgitate the pre-masticated cud into my small mouth. I think of these things, but I do not remember them. I am not quite sure what is real or not, as I have grown to believe parts of my brain have rotted and my memories and functions have all but stopped. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

I see a yellow naked child come towards me. She is holding a large yellow knife. Her breasts are much larger than the other children I have seen. In fact, I think this is actually a bonafied woman. Her head is that of a diseased dog; beautiful and friendly, and somewhat stunning, once you get past the maggots. I open my orange-coated half-lips to utter a word to this faded newspaper goddess. What word it is I wanted to utter, I am not sure. I think something along the lines of “sweetchineekymooomath.” But nevertheless it is meaningless, as no sound would escape my lips.

But still, the dog faced woman is approaching me. Slowly, so slowly, it’s agonizing. I just want her to get it over with, whatever it is she is going to do to me, whatever it is she isn’t going to do. I have no patience, though this must seem contradictory to my situation, as I cannot move or talk. One would think I would have some patience by now. But alas, I do not.

Finally, The woman sticks the yellow knife in my left rotted ear hole. She says something, but I can’t hear her. She says it again:

“Immobile lumps turn me on.”