IT WAS TOO DARK FOR A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
I hadn’t been dead for more than an hour but I sensed my life would never be the same. For one, I was going to need a parka or a nice Icelandic sweater because it was getting chilly. I took this as a good sign. I always thought I was going to hell, so unless someone gave me a wildly inaccurate weather report, things were looking up. Just the thought of trying on a pair of wings was almost enough to give me an erection, though I have to say I was getting pretty stiff in general. A pair of wings would be something to take care of. It would certainly be better than polishing my shoes every Sunday morning. And then I felt as if I were coming undone. I was there and I wasn’t there. I saw a policeman roll me over and put his fingers on my neck like they do in the movies, just to see if there’s a trickle of hope running through the veins. “This bastard’s a clinger,” he said, before shooting me between the eyes. I don’t know why.
—from Rattle #57, Fall 2017
Bob Lucky: “There are days, these days especially, when words seem more slippery than usual. Some days you can use them to bury meaning. Other days they’re good for varnishing a truth or two. In general, I like them, which is why I write.”