bunker

by Marcus Silcock

They were the burning bush in the wilderness of starched fathers. The wolves howled outside. Mother leaned against the dresser to pop out another sister. What big eyes, said mother. The forest witch hung herbs from the ceiling. She played squeezebox with the placenta. There are so many ways to propel yourself forward. Head down there to the bunker and bring me back two cans of peaches. The peaches stewing in peach juice. For so many years. Down there in the bunker. For the end days. Now they were going to eat them. In the evening, large bowl of boiled broad beans. They bit the tip and sucked. Bit the tip and sucked. Sure beats pig ears. Too chewy. The baby rimpled her dimples.

Photo of Marcus Silcock

BIO: Irish writer Marcus Silcock (formerly Marcus Slease) teaches English literature and creative writing at a high school in Barcelona. His writing has been translated into Slovak, Turkish, Polish and Danish and has appeared widely in magazines and anthologies in North America and Europe. He co-edits surreal-absurd for Mercurius magazine. His latest book of prose poems and microfictions, Dream Dust, is available from Broken Sleep Books. Find out more at Never Mind the Beasts (www.nevermindthebeasts.com).