In the fields, the ground sprouts men. Men in conductor coats water the fields where the ground sprouts men. Men in conductor coats behold a flapping symphony. The fields sprout more men in conductor coats who water the fields.
Floods come and deserts dry and men grow gills and men birth scales. This proceeds for thousands of years. Mountains house tombs. Feathers, volcanoes, lakes.
From the fields, a woman is born with a book in her hands. She opens the book and from the binding unwinds a star. The star rises to the sky and for the first time, the men in conductor coats halt the watering of the fields and watch. The woman flips through the pages, stargazes. When she reads, her cape shakes.
By morning, the men in conductor coats no longer water the fields. They wait in line for the woman to sleep. They bring balloons on strings to tie to her teeth. Those that pop launch floods. Those that float know God.
The more the woman reads from her book, the faster trees sprout out of her mouth. The first cloud appears inside of her house. She is alone eating dinner. She tries to write on it with chalk. Everything is leaking, she writes. It's how she likes to see.
Benjamin Niespodziany's writing has appeared in the Wigleaf Top 50, Fence, Salt Hill, The Indianapolis Review, Peach Mag, and elsewhere. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, and Best of the Net. He works nights in a library in Chicago.
The Ekphrastic Review
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