By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
The Weather was Indoors with All the Best Deceptions The first time I rolled into a Fritz Lang movie, I was stringing up those balls the professionals would later use for tennis and resilient acts of lust. Cold calling butt-less chap ladders out of their unassuming altitude. The weather was indoors with all the best deceptions, pinching shadows right on the fibbery. No goose for fleshy gander, it was a real shindig of blossoming malcontents. All those close-ups and no evidence of anything. A man can try himself out of boredom while the lucky 13 of the alphabet is off stoking foolish superstitions into brand new sprawlings. And my iron hull for plasticine yogis. Borders and 80-year-old women refusing to change. I was chuffed to be in hiding. Not a screen writers' guild pen in sight, a flotsam time to be alive. Huzzah! Huzzah! Warn Lady Chatterley's bedroom Lilliputians. I'm sorry, Blefuscu is Romanian, as though Swift wasn't even trying. Like all those jubilant car wreck cymbals that want to announce the end of everything.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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