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My First Pair of Combat Boots (draft of a magically real interlude from within that book)

September 29, 2017

Thanks to the generosity of my darling friends I am writing daily. And in honor of their patronage, just tonight, I wrote this magically real interlude about being a spy for the US Military. It’s a few words inspired by their collective love and generosity. For now, this is what I have to give. Thank you, you beautiful, kind creatures.

Tiki rode the electric serpent between the signals from box to ears burrowing deep into brains, scraping her way past song memories of childhood and skating rink lock-ins. The currents carried, propelled her away from the earth into the sky unseen, but hearing everything. Sighs, curses of him and her, and the bad guys. Sky writing, submarine bubbles, and soiled mumbles, all open to Tiki’s keen senses.

Tiki learned secrets. Tiki told none. Tracks, traces, all erased with the tap of a key and rewind, re-record. Erase the tape.

Her electric serpent tried time and again to eat its own tail. Tiki’s weight prohibited this. Distracting the serpent with small moves and little side conversations about which pieces of fried chicken to order.

Along the wires, behind the boxes, the hot places where the machine tried to melt Tiki down into her fundamental parts, these places were supposedly safe. Outside, in the silence, Tiki was unleashed and free. Perhaps temperate climates are more suitable.

“It’s cold from the fans and dark … outside the boxes.”

Tiny lights of Christmas and Fourth of July fireworks are not bright enough to un-shadow the badness.

Tiki tamed the electric serpent and made it her pet. Cuddling. Conspiring. Around the world they traveled. Tiki learned to collect stories and covet them beneath the scales of her serpent friend.

Tiki and her electric serpent making fake friends in many lands.

Pressed into the soles of my combat boots are stories with bad guy heroes and miniseries endings. They are dusty secrets no longer worth listening to.

“A listener that steals stories, intimate telephonic kisses, grocery lists and family drug wars is no one’s friend.”

“I have others.”

“Tell them.”

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