One side of his syrinx trilled a curse to his family’s murderer. The other warbled his children’s favorite melodies through sobs. His friends comforted him but discouraged his screams: “You’ll die, by predator or exhaustion.” He always replied: “Can’t die. Already dead.”
The humans nearby praised, “Pretty bird. Beautiful song!”
Nature both terrifies and captivates boomer trujillo. Find more of his work at boomert.info.
Three million years entering R.E.M. A dreamy rendezvous with a handsome-beaked mollusk. Wasted.
She half-awoke fully enraged. Fleshy apes. Again. Transmitting waves embedded with trains, rockets, and cream pies. Again.
She hit the snooze, propelling an asteroid toward Earth.
She hoped, vainly, to rejoin the mollusk before waking for work.
boomer trujillo knows it’s not Mondays; it’s really any day without the automated, communist utopia from Star Trek. Check out more of his stuff at boomert.info.
Muncie Singleton always sent the kids to school with a baked spud and three strips of thick-cut bacon. On their birthdays, Muncie replaced their usual hand-churned butter with store-bought.
When Muncie ran out of bacon, it took all day to restock. But the same errand eliminated one annual shopping trip.
boomer trujillo’s parents never sent him to school with homemade lunches. He’s sure that’s because they loved him. Check out his writing at boomert.info
I shouldn’t be here, he thought.
But the physicians marveled at him. “Ship broke in atmo?” “How many procedures?” “The team outdid themselves.”
No one asked the marvel whether he wanted saving—without legs, arms, jaw, or sight. So, the marvel sat in his case—talked at, rotated for sores.
When he could only see UV light, he feared his distress call would be answered too late. When the vine replaced every blood vessel with xylem and phloem, he knew he would never be the same. But when his body flowered and the petals spoke, he deactivated the call himself.
boomer trujillo’s never turned into a plant, but he’s not sure he’s fully human either. Check out his fiction and philosophy at: boomert.info.
Burgers and beer aren’t romantic, unless free-range and craft. The perfect test: casual pretense, maudlin subtext.
They caught each other blowing away their beer-burger burps discreetly. Infatuation.
They cut off each’s “Before this goes further, you should know” speeches with “I already know, and I feel just the same.” Love.
boomer trujillo is a TexMex son, parent to an anxious dog, and a perpetual student. He’s grateful for readers.