I come to the mirror, a smug, run animal, extracting my eyes, teeth, rub the dent of rings into the sink. I put a comb to my head because I’m flirting again, and catching blown kisses in my beard.
There are dead men in the bushes, she thinks, right by where I walk the dog. Dead rich men killed by goblin boys. Thin, wiry boys, strung out on greed and miscellaneous wanga. Breath burned by that crazy smoke. Lips, cracked and dry, marked with tender pipe sores. Smelling a sweet, plumy scent like a … Continue reading Fiction: “The Dead Men in the Bushes” by Lisa Burdige