The tiger roared, and then exploded into a mist of ink. All the rage, anger, sound, fury, wistfulness, wishfulness, hopes, dreams, future lives, past lives, future roads, forgotten cross roads, all just like that. Pop. The beast has relinquished itself from its beasthood. He who laughs with a gun in his mouth, laughs the loudest. Granted, his laugh is aided and abetted by a load of gunpowder and the shriek of compressed air and the scream of hot lead. When the tiger inside the head of the tiger roars its last roar, it goes pop. And then just like that, the universe goes pop with it. It spurts out in multicolored fountains of ink. The kind of ink that stains. RedOrangeYelloyGreenBlueIndigoViolet ink. It gets everywhere. The ink is your blood. The ink lands everywhere in the shape of words. Words forever omnipresent attached to things labeled for all eternity. All of which you can see has been covered with ink and labeled with the word the ink has formed. To see something is to spurt all over it with murky, milky ink.
The wolf howled, and then burst into a cloud of paint. All the silence, drive, passion, thoughts, feelings, emotions, judgments, interpretations, concepts, ideas, structures go just like that. Splash. The animal is an animal no longer. He who smiles with his head in the noose, smiles the biggest. Granted, his smile is aided by the sizable erection the snapping of his spinal column has given him. When the wolf outside of the head of the wolf howls its first howl, it goes splash. And then just like that, nothing goes splat with it. The paint drifts out into the sky and then rains down from the heavens. It’s the kind of paint that paints the sky when your skull is exposed to the sunshine. It comes down in all the colors and covers you all over. It’s the kind of paint that does not, in fact, wash out, forever and ever, until the end of it. VioletIndigoBlueGreenYellowOrangeRed paint. The paint reflects all of the light you see in all of the different colors you see. Whenever you see light reflect off of something, that thing is covered in paint. To see something is to jet all over it with gooey, gushy paint.
The bear growled, and then erupted into a puff of dye. All of the hunger, sensation, smells, sounds, tastes, pains, joys, orgasms, sorrows, depressions, vomit, mucus, awkwardness just go like that. Boom. The creature has ceased to be a creature. He who cries while eating pleasure, sheds the most tears. Granted, his tears are augmented with the white waterworks of joy. When the bear that is the head of the bear growls its middle growl, it goes boom. And then, just like that half of what is goes boom with it, then half of what is not booms into what is. The dye rises into the sky, a smoke signal indicating its return to the atmosphere to mother nature. From there the dye enters the water cycle, where it ends up onto and into everything that has ever lived breathed or sighed. It’s the kind of dye you don’t just wear in your clothes; you wear it in your hair like flowers, and in your brain like bobby pins. YellowOrangeRedGreenVioletIndigoBlue dye. Different colors for every season. The dye affects the way you think and the way you don’t think. The dye is both your mother and your father. The dye colors everything and nothing. If something has either not existed or existed, its been covered with dye. To see something is to burst all over it with holy, hot dye.
Lucas Burris is a young writer who has been previously published in the online publication Spry Literary Journal. He is currently studying English at John Carroll University in Cleveland, OH.Reviews