On The Third Day
By Dave Migman
The ouzo made him crazy. He was a foreigner. If he’d have been Greek he would have drank it with water, like the French do with pastis. But he wasn’t to know. He bought the bottle because the picture on the label displayed a picture of a girl’s abdomen. She wore a short skirt and had long legs and it amused him.
Back in the tent he began writing a letter. Dear friend, it began, I miss you all ever so much but I undertook this journey because I had to escape. He supped and continued. By the second glass they were all arseholes and bastards anyway.
He had memories of that night (ribald fractured memories). He stood outside a kennel barking at dogs. He fired his catapult at a stinking cat. He rolled naked in the moonlit sand. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He awoke. The tent, heated by the mid morning sun, was stifling and reeked of sweat and aniseed. He opened his eyes. His clothes were bundled beneath his face, a pillow of sorts. The vomit was sticky on his cheek, in his socks and t-shirts, were potatoes and mustard sauce – he gagged again and grappled with the zip. He vomited again in the fresh air. He drank copious amounts of water… he felt drunk again. He groaned.
- - -
Mr. Migman is an illiterate despot. Part saint, part muck, part string, part sticky fluff. His words and art have found their way into various online receptacles and such like.
By Dave Migman
The ouzo made him crazy. He was a foreigner. If he’d have been Greek he would have drank it with water, like the French do with pastis. But he wasn’t to know. He bought the bottle because the picture on the label displayed a picture of a girl’s abdomen. She wore a short skirt and had long legs and it amused him.
Back in the tent he began writing a letter. Dear friend, it began, I miss you all ever so much but I undertook this journey because I had to escape. He supped and continued. By the second glass they were all arseholes and bastards anyway.
He had memories of that night (ribald fractured memories). He stood outside a kennel barking at dogs. He fired his catapult at a stinking cat. He rolled naked in the moonlit sand. Bang. Bang. Bang.
He awoke. The tent, heated by the mid morning sun, was stifling and reeked of sweat and aniseed. He opened his eyes. His clothes were bundled beneath his face, a pillow of sorts. The vomit was sticky on his cheek, in his socks and t-shirts, were potatoes and mustard sauce – he gagged again and grappled with the zip. He vomited again in the fresh air. He drank copious amounts of water… he felt drunk again. He groaned.
- - -
Mr. Migman is an illiterate despot. Part saint, part muck, part string, part sticky fluff. His words and art have found their way into various online receptacles and such like.
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