Brian Alan Ellis
“Well,” said Doctor Shire, the man maneuvering Rosewater into a white, fluorescently lit room, “here we are.” “Doctor,”
wheelchair, “about the dream I had, last night…” “Do tell, Mister Rosewater, do tell…” “Well, I dreamt that Mother came to visit. It was in a room like this one. She came to me as a nurse.” “Oh?” said Dr. Shire, sleepily. “She injected me with something.” Rosewater thought about it. “Heroin,” he said. “Just like in real life.” “Mr. Rosewater, are you saying that your mother actually shot you up with heroin?” “Oh, yes,” said Rosewater. “For many years. She said it was her way of facilitating our relationship.” “Fascinating.” “You won’t believe it, Dr. Shire, but the heroin allowed me to
eventually I got the hang of it, and so I went over to Mother, who of course asked how her little boy was doing and I said, ‘Oh, just fine, just fine,’ and we kissed, and after our kiss she told me to sit down on the floor, which I did, and she said ‘good boy’ and then laughed that sweet, raspy laugh I remember her having, and I laughed also, and then she nudged me with her foot a little, and so I got real excited and began hugging and kissing those strong, wonderful legs of hers and then… then something bad happened.” “Something bad?” “Yes… the skin on her legs started to blacken and flake, - 41 -
Published on Sep 30, 2011
The Fine Line presents its third compilation of art, fiction and poetry by contributors Francis Raven, Michael Young, Dorothee Lang, Raj Sha...