They peel everything they eat down to the core and stack each sliver neatly on their tongues. When they watch television, they only watch the left side, by the nobs. Actually, they mostly
watch the nobs, their round silence like the o of a child's mouth. They think adults' mouths are
too skewed, too much teeth.
During autumn they fill the house with lightbulbs and crush them beneath their boots. A
better sound than crunching leaves, they think. Nature overrated, they muse.
When it snows outside, they crank up the heat and take turns whacking each other in
the head with a pillow until the feathers pop out. Much better than snow they think, as the
feathers settle among the broken glass.
One time, one of them hits the other in the head with a toaster during a lightning storm,
hoping for sparks. When that doesn't work, they turn on the tv and lovingly caress that perfect
o, hoping for static.
is a Pushcart and Best Microfictions 2018 nominee. He holds an MFA from the University of Notre Dame. His prose has been published in Unbroken Journal, Microfiction Monday, Leopardskin and Limes, formercactus
. He tweets @ErikFuhrer