Quake
by Len Kuntz
My brother is downstairs having sex with Janee when the earthquake hits.
Books bounce off shelves. The chandelier rocks. Picture frames clatter and crack. A vase shatters.
A second later the room yawns, motionless in a cone of eerie silence usually associated with darkness, only the sun is screaming though the picture window on this sweaty ballsack, ninety degree day.
I walk among the wreckage. Glass crackles and snaps. Our family Christmas portrait from last year is bent diagonally, flecked by shards. I never really looked that closely at anyone except me, but now I take in Ben's cocky grin, Casey's stupor, Mom's anxious smile stretched Saran Wrap-tight across her cheek bones and jaw. And then there's Dad, half-looking at her, half-looking away as if he knew even then.
I want to cry. It feels like invisible hands are breaking off parts of my bones. In a moment I will be dust. I need to scream, to curse, but instead I start laughing. Everything-the earthquake, Mom's affair, all this destruction-seems so ingenious, as if someone had planned it.
LEN KUNTZ is a writer from Washington State. His work appears widely in print and online at such places as Used Furniture, Marco Polo Magazine, Juked and others. You can find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com
by Len Kuntz
My brother is downstairs having sex with Janee when the earthquake hits.
Books bounce off shelves. The chandelier rocks. Picture frames clatter and crack. A vase shatters.
A second later the room yawns, motionless in a cone of eerie silence usually associated with darkness, only the sun is screaming though the picture window on this sweaty ballsack, ninety degree day.
I walk among the wreckage. Glass crackles and snaps. Our family Christmas portrait from last year is bent diagonally, flecked by shards. I never really looked that closely at anyone except me, but now I take in Ben's cocky grin, Casey's stupor, Mom's anxious smile stretched Saran Wrap-tight across her cheek bones and jaw. And then there's Dad, half-looking at her, half-looking away as if he knew even then.
I want to cry. It feels like invisible hands are breaking off parts of my bones. In a moment I will be dust. I need to scream, to curse, but instead I start laughing. Everything-the earthquake, Mom's affair, all this destruction-seems so ingenious, as if someone had planned it.
LEN KUNTZ is a writer from Washington State. His work appears widely in print and online at such places as Used Furniture, Marco Polo Magazine, Juked and others. You can find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com