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Interstices

September 3, 2011

At the present, I knew the man would die, I knew because I saw the stories that would be told about his death. The hood of the car will ripple like the cheek of a man punched. Metal accordions will play. Tires will drag and bleed.

It was the windshield that most convinced me of his crossing over. The image in my mind is of glass shattering into a million tiny fragments and particles of diamond dust—and at this break, two things are joining: his body, bridging over into the glass, trespassing it, imbruing it with his blood—and the oncoming forces wasting the car from its front. The shockwaves carry through matter and space alike.

If he could have spoken to me at that moment, instead of staring dumb, he might have said, Listen, I’m making space for myself. Because that’s what he was doing, after all. He was telling his story: and so the glass breaks—and he pitches headlong into some new place where he will lie still, having made a name for himself.

 

© Trent R. Leinenbach, Ashen Apples, 2011

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. December 17, 2012 5:13 pm

    Truly amazing your grasp of the technicalities that are often lost in the translation from idea to writings is unusual. This gives your descriptions incredibly unique qualities. “The image in my mind is of glass shattering into a million tiny fragments and particles of diamond dust—and at this break, two things are joining: his body, bridging over into the glass, trespassing it, imbruing it with his blood—and the oncoming forces wasting the car from its front. ” This sentence is reminiscent of Elison’s writing style in Invisible Man.

    • June 23, 2013 7:58 am

      Thanks L. That’s quite a compliment. I need to get back to posting my work online, and comments like this are very encouraging.

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