EVP Recording Session #1: The Original Poltergeist Recalls
“I moseyed to the lifeless party late, buried my shock under my skirts just like a garter. —Wait. I never moved or carried anything. No clothing in the great beyond.
It’s tailored: each unpleasant underworldly task. Our assignment was forgetting all that’s physical.
No body danced, I mean, not a soul was dancing. Only those possessing minds hear music, and the vacant atmosphere forbids sound waves.
This realization was an afterthought, no, it wasn’t thought at any time.
Imagine (since you can) a single, long-flat, Beer brand beer passed all around but not one mouth for drinking. This afterlife treads space-time everlasting, wastes eternity abundantly in heaven’s flotsam, lost.
Incapable of searching, aching, thirsting, I wished to pray for feeling, but couldn’t figure what to do about my lack of hands.
Nothing could be held anymore.
Who wouldn’t return to Earth, to what they knew, trying to knock on every wall?”
EVP Recording Session #63: The Woman Possessed
“Look, let’s don’t haggle. I live and need a sling for these stacked sections of my spine. Forgive my hands that grasp and beg, comprised of beanie babies, signed love poems in hallmark cards, polyester crocuses. Please imagine all Swarovski prisms and iridescent baubles dangling are my eyes. Take care to house your nose in one of those milk-soft Angellic Made® faux fox fur blankets; it will mask the rosy smell of my unfolding. Step lightly and do note my blistered Christmas cookie tins hold listed secrets and once hollow bottles filled with curses to be hurled. Tear shaped pearls of buttons pop clean off a shirt, which functions as a foot. My teeth glint, pieces of baby from the cabbage patch. The desert in my body thirsts, and I will eat, and wax, and sour in this eating. —Listen, I’ll recount a myth of loss and rattle all these lassoed yellow-bandied birds—which function as my lungs. The little souls won’t sing in tune; I cared to crush all melody from them years ago. Now they tweet a different kind of song: their music mimics weeping, no?”
EVP Recording Session #224: Lifelong Hotline Psychic
“I’ll begin when I began to smell my end in tea leaves, lengthened
shadows cast by chicken bones, though I’m still not completely sure how I’m to read new bubbles grouped in blood and urine. When my illness crept up in the crow
caws after sunrise, I stayed coy until I saw the grave-stone colored egg-white in my soup.
—This would shatter any doubt.
Haggard, I attempted reading wrinkles, which revealed my future passing before the year was out.
I gave away my winter clothes and space
heaters, ate in groups of seven, vowed to never pace a room again.
Now my tongue will tangle past
and future tense like yarn: tomorrows might as well be yesterdays. Soon, clocks meant nothing and I threw them out.
The final weeks smugly wrapped me up in praying
for the cat to scamper backward forty paces.
But on the forecast day I placed two silver dollars on my eyes and stiffened on the floor.
I scrawled a note on my front lawn in spray paint, saying I was here, remove me.
Or am I now a future dream of all that hasn’t happened yet?
What century is this? I have no sense of timing anymore.”
Lauren Brazeal is the author of two chapbooks, Zoo for Well-Groomed Eaters (Dancing Girl Press, 2016) and exuviae (Horse Less Press, 2016). Her first full-length collection, Gutter, was released in the summer of 2018 from YesYes Books. In her past, Brazeal has been a homeless gutter-punk, a resident of Ecuador’s Amazon jungle, a maid, a surfer chick, and a custom aquarium designer. A graduate of Bennington’s MFA program in writing and literature, her work has appeared in journals such as DIAGRAM, Smartish Pace, Barrelhouse, Forklift, Ohio, and Verse Daily.