and the melting ice in the old fashioned spoke to me, which said you’re avoiding your feelings like you do when your feelings come for you with a machete, and I asked the ice are they at least smiling when they do it, and the melting ice said you’d have to actually smile once in awhile, and I laughed hard, but not hard enough to drop the glass and end the conversation, and the bourbon said stop drowning me to the melting ice, and we both hushed it, and then I gave in by sipping a little more to make the corridor between me and my feelings longer, the ones that chase me down when I least expect them to, which swarm me when I think about you, and saying your name opened the door and shortened the corridor so my feelings got to me sooner, and the camera panned out so you can see the machete come down, and then the camera focused tight on my feelings pulling the machetes out of my body and noticing there’s no blood on the blade, and the bourbon pointed out why does all of your metaphors about having feelings for someone involve violence, and I didn’t hush the bourbon this time, which made me put the glass down and stare into the melting ice (would you hurry the fuck up and drink me already, the bourbon complained, as it does when you don’t drink it fast enough because it takes pride in its consumption), and I took a deep breath and finally said: I don’t know anything else, and the melting ice replied maybe, you should try something different, for once, and I finished the old fashioned because I didn’t know what to say to that.
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J. Bradley is the author of On the Campaign Trail (Long Day Press, 2020). He lives at jbradleywrites.com.
Rejection Letters 