Bazaar in Ruins by Mike Lee, a bottle of Jameson

 One: The Last Storm

The thunderstorm was explosive--sheets of rain curtained down loud as gunshots, soft as paint splatters from exploding balloons in the nighttime sky, presaging autumn, which this was, the last loud scream of the dead summer returning to rattle ghostly chains in October to remind us of its passing, telling us about the heat, the sun, vacations on the beach and air conditioners and fans whirring in apartment blocks tenements condos, turned off for the season, but hello boom, and reminding you like your worst and best relationship, the one who scrawled a note attached to a brick and tossed it through your window before driving away from your life. The storm, therefore, is relief and release; don’t mind getting soaked, because things may change for the better: the rain cleans the gutters, flooding out all the shit, and its cleansing is closure if you make the most of it. So, there is joy in that, think positively, and move on toward home in the night.

Two: Remember

From the shadow into the light of an autumn afternoon, I point defiantly, shouting on this magical stage spread under this weakening sun, hours fading into ageless night, telling you what is, not, maybe, should, could, and never will be again. You can tell me I am nothing but a shade to be forgotten—that punk you knew quiet back of the class, a few years later you saw me huddled against the cracking tile, almost asleep, 5 a.m. Times Square platform under the rusting girders. But backed against the wall, I am here calling you out. Because I remember you, and I know you say you don’t recall me. But I remember you, and I am fucking still around, and when you get it, you will know.

Three: Walk

Center me against brick; make me one with the clay, burn me Hiroshima Enola Gay fat man into shadow John Hersey cliché stop all war but they keep on coming so what the fuck with this shit. I am a shadow of myself, nothing to see here. Live anonymously, though some will remember, then less recall until life takes them, and I am forgotten. Legends remain, but never people, and I am all too human in my passage of grieving regret. So, walk on.

Walk.

About the author

Mike Lee's work appears in or is forthcoming in Blood+Honey, Bristol Noir, Roi Faineant, Wallstrait, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. Also is in the latest Cafe Lit anthology.

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