Fiction: Liza St. James
I Didn’t Get to My Rage Yet
I saw the man with the kid having too much fun together to be related, or else to see each other often. The uncle or the estranged father was telling the kid about a band he knew that ate kids on stage.
Do they really? For real? The kid asked. Who’s the guitarist?
And the divorced miserable uncle said, Of course they do. They rip the flesh right off, right there, and spit it back out at the audience. You’d be lucky to be in the same room and not be sacrificed for the music.
I looked down at the kid’s helmet as it shined in the streetlight, his head protected, a tiny bowling ball.
My cousin once told me that hot dogs were cow’s lips. We would all cheer at the zoo when seagulls swooped the lips away from children. Isn’t it funny when nature wins? It has since been determined that seagulls also enjoy dried human, much in the way we’d savor a shriveled fig.
Liza St. James is a writer and translator from San Francisco. She is editor-at-large for Transit Books and associate editor of the literary annual NOON. Her fiction has been translated into Finnish.