Open with the narrator speaking to a statue, conveying the sadness of New Jersey. Describing the taste of ocean air outside a Walmart, the incongruity of homeless men a block off the boardwalk. It’s the end of an endless car trip in summer, credits already rolling through late afternoon sky.
The statue points out the place where an ice cream stand once stood—an artifact of indigenous culture. In its place, gulls pluck eyes of garbage from the smooth face of the parking lot.
Pause here.
Consider sand enveloping your feet. Consider unsent postcards. Consider the laughter of children. Consider everything that is tiny and endless.
Randolph Pfaff is a writer, editor, and visual artist. He lives in Boston, where he edits for a magazine called apt and a small press called Aforementioned. His work has appeared in PANK, The Destroyer, Rufous City Review, Thunderclap! and Open Letters Monthly, among others.
Photo credit: wintersixfour, morguefile.com
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