Always the Extra
By E.S. Wynn


I am a leftover. Sitting at the kitchen table of this alien house and surrounded by cats, I hunker against the wall as the cold fingers of death that breathe outward from the woods thread their way into my shivering soul. In the yard, three tightly-bound couples flirt and dance in the darkness, howl and yell, scream at the moon and take cues from the hyperactive children blasting frenzied air in their midst. Drums pound, a camera flashes over and over again in the darkness, and the cult of the individual rises, the constant “but this!” which screams the single focus “I am! I want!” in vicious exchanges lost in the tide of drunken lust. Inside, an empty bottle of tequila sits at an angle on the counter, propped on the curve of a dirty plate, and the tiny ring of leftover gold at the bottom promises happiness, in truth leads only to more insanity, a further loss of awareness, a deeper destruction of reason.

Waiting, I sit in the cold indoors, silently wishing I were somewhere else, wishing I had someone to talk to, someone to save me.


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