Frontal Lobotomy
Memories like old friends he never liked often showed up on Seth’s front porch without calling first to see if he’d even gotten out of bed yet.
He didn’t ever recognize any of them.
They wanted to talk with him over a few beers about the good old days when they were all so young, but he just wanted to lie in bed all day dreaming of documentaries about old television shows he never had the chance to watch because he was too busy hanging around with a future he’d soon adopt and nurture like the child he’d never’ve been again.
So, Seth was thinking of having his doorbell disconnected.
There’s more to a dead playground than mere unadulterated absence. There’s a history there, a room Gene moved out of years ago, then he crammed himself and all his belongings into that tiny apartment, which more resembled a utility room the size of a janitor’s closet, at the end of a long, dark hallway which was history he could view through only a peephole, one distorted chunk of it he noticed changed one day, and pretty soon he decided to unlock the door, leave that tiny apartment to find out what happened, and it wasn’t long before he took a step forward into the past, to the point when even Gene’s own childhood had grown fond of his not ever being there. Bio: Eric Beeny’s poems and stories have appeared in The 2nd Hand, Abjective, Clockwise Cat, Corduroy Mtn., elimae, Ghoti, HazMat Review, Main Street Rag, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, and others. He’s a contributing editor for Gold Wake Press. His blog is Dead End on Progressive Ave. (ericbeeny.blogspot.com).
Abandonment Issues