HELP ME, MOSES Fiction by Ryan Kelly
The moon was full in a yellow hot sauce sky, the city was dead quiet, and Tom was pissing off the porch and singing some Vashti Bunyan song in his best falsetto howl. A gust of wind blew and the magnolia tree rattled its sagging spinach branches against the fence. Tom felt he was better than the moon. With his elbow he knocked his can of beer off the porch railing. Can dented, beer flat. He went and picked it up. His dog, a black shepherd-terrier mix with Pinscher brown eyebrows, followed Tom around to the front where the trashcans were. The dog’s name was Moses. He wagged his tail and sniffed the can like it was filled with pulled pork, smelling the sunrise in what he couldn’t know was just a can of dead swill. In the garbage it went. Inside his apartment, Tom scribbled a list onto a Burger King napkin that was sitting in crumbs and ashes. He wanted to publish a book of nonsensical lists someday.
Marlboro Reds: Poetry
Marlboro Lights: Fiction
Parliaments: Fantasy
Pall Malls: Cancer
Camels: The Void
Newports: Immortality
It was time to take Moses for a walk around the block. He picked up the leash and for once considered using it since he was drunk. He thought maybe Moses took him less seriously when he was drunk. Trusted him less. *** Earlier that day, Tom had a tattoo appointment at a parlor called Pluto’s Soda Fountain. He got a minimal line drawing of Moses’ eyes, nose and ears tattooed onto his chest. At the end of it, he asked about getting a touch-up. 126