—YOU CAN CALL ME BETTY

 

 

AFTER THE RAPTURE    /    Nancy Stohlman

 

 

After the rapture, people tried to sue religion.

 

And with each passing day, that which had been outlandish was no longer outlandish, that which had been metaphor was now truth, and the people watched the edge disappear like a baby being crushed.

 

I mean, the missing person is me. I’m not missing. I’m right here. I’m not sure what’s going on.

 

Please do not let your child use dry ideology without proper supplication.

 

If you feel yourself becoming dizzy or experience a localized rash please see your health care practitioner immediately.

 

--Do you feel like you aren’t yourself?

--Yes.

--Like everyone is out to get you?

--Yes.

--Like no one understands you?

--Yes.

--Like you were put here for a reason?

Sirens getting louder.

 

They’re all eunuchs, castrated to keep them impartial.

 

In case of suicide the full balance will be passed onto the designated next of kin or assigned beneficiary plus penalties. 

 

I show them to the door, where 8.6 slips a business card in my hand—Call me? he mouths with a wink.

 

And the people remembered the forgetting. The way one forgets so slowly it’s almost like not forgetting.

 

And then the people remembered another dream. A slow dream. A dirty dream. A hallucination dream. They remembered a sweat lodge dream, a pink sky dream. A dream hyperventilating under a bush, a dream that ripped through nylon. 

 

The dreams were tired, but alive.