They carry peace bombs in their foreheads. Ready to explode should you just extend one hand, nay, one pinkie finger to help lighten the load. The bomb builds back up again every night. Their dreams are of colors we can’t yet see, and they are quiet builders, master blenders, mantis shrimp. When the whirring starts in the morning, you know someone is throwing all the colored fruits into the mix. Serving it to you like a rainbow juice from the other world, extravagant. Though, when the world is not those beautiful clouds from that beautiful dream, it’s the deepest mud-brown from where she face plants into the waste stream. Some say wrap those red claws in rubber bands and throw it all into the boil. That’s when the screaming starts. She starts to smell herself. All irrationalities become clearer than wood. Ready to stew. She is rotten, no good. Until. Your pinkie. Extends. And then, boom.
First published in Subterranean Quarterly