Darby Larson

I need more cream, she says. I need more cream here. Put it here. I put it where she tells me. I need it, like, inside the thing, with your finger. I think it's good enough, I say, let's go. She takes a picture of the thing, then we leave.

The night is how the night normally is, moon hung, machine-gunned stars. What does the night mean? I wonder, as if it were art. Electric lights built by humans shine because of the no sunshine. We take a walk and wonder under it all. Where are we headed? I ask. I'm hungry, she says.

Bumblebees block the happy door so we try the sad.

Inside, jars of black cream on shelves adorn the walls. The ceiling is green. It is something I notice. The ceiling is someone's front lawn.

Seven sad, she says. The man takes seven jars from the shelf behind him, bags them. Seven sad is seven even, he says, a dollar a jar.

I'm hungry, she says. We're back outside under the midnight. I've got a Twix, I say, remembering. She eats it on the way back.

We're back, I say declaratively as I step through the doorway, as if other people or maybe a dog lived there. The creamed thing is in the corner. She goes to it, takes out a jar of sad and pours it in. Here, she says. I take the camera from her. I take a picture of the thing. A few more.

It's good, yeah? she says. I say, yeah.

Darby Larson edits the new online journal, Abjective. He's got stories in or forthcoming from New York Tyrant, Eyeshot, No Colony, Pequin, SmokeLong and others.

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Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Jef Harris.

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