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New Creations
Out in Public

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Run Amok

Brian Looney

Even now, as we move through all these my’s and I’s, I stop to wonder if it’s poetry. Even now, I have something still to say, the will to veer away from relatability, to plunge headlong into an unpredictable mania, eighteen-wheeler run amok, and you better move out of his way because the brakes are shot, the mountain’s got some nasty curves. We’re at the peak, your Honor, here is where the fun begins, life or death it seems.

Excuse me, your Honor? Are you lucid? Think that I might ditch the cargo? A pull of the lever and we swing free, the trailer down the cliff, to better our chances, see? It’s done already, off with the weight, an executive decision. We fall into a switchback rhythm.

Attention is drawn to the snow-capped peaks, and debate ensues. Party 1 alleges that this snow has been around for eons, indeed since the formation of the mountain, as it never truly seems to melt, temperatures being what they are. Party 2 holds that some of the snow must melt, which accounts for all the rivers and streams, and the simple fact that if the snow never melted, it would stack on the peaks, miles high, to the very edge of the atmosphere, and that adventurers would ice pick to space in special suits. Party 3 is frightened to tears, but states her tears were once the snow on the mountain.

“But gad, the steering wheel is cold. Not ideal to warm the hands.”
“What has the highway done to your hands?”
“Relax, I just need a glove or two.”
“Don’t they come in pairs?”
“I only bought the one. One hand in a glove, the other at the pelvic reaches.”
“You are such a pervert.”
“Only trying to warm my hands. One glove for my two. One is all you need. Bought it from the one-armed man without the use of currency. He wore the other on his only hand, his right. He had no use for its brother, but I certainly did, for at the time, I was still one-handed, and desperately needed a left-handed glove to fit my right-handed disposition.”



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