Michael Acciarino
Stories (5)
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Walking Legend
Metallic thwangs pervaded Gørgon's dreams, each conjured image set to the same metronome. He grew anxious in its absence. T’was Yorne, knelt by yesternight’s fire, tending a series of swords with hammerhead. One hand struck metal on metal and the other, a banded twist of twigs serving for lost limb, held each blade between his knees. He did not sleep, far as Gørgon could tell. His arm of bark made him kin to the earth, and neither slept a wink.
By Michael Acciarino4 years ago in Fiction
A Cineaste's Resolution
I don’t deserve my eyes. It’s a thought that zigzags across the multi-colored void of my eyelids after any self-induced migraine, while I use the bedsheets to seal off incoming noise and oxygen. Sometimes I think staring up at the general direction of the pain will make it subside, and sometimes it works. I don’t know the science behind this, but like many unknowns, it probably chalks up to placebo. Ignorance as aid. That pill didn’t make the pain disappear, we did, in believing pills are magic. I’m gonna give my children a mint whenever they complain of headache. The attention is what counts, like a mother’s kiss on their baby’s split finger.
By Michael Acciarino4 years ago in Journal
Great Enough to Be Remembered
The last word fourteen-year-old Billy Moss wanted to say on earth was “cut!” He had spent the better part of his life consuming video media and an egregious sum of carbohydrates. The second thing he’d devoted his life to, if but unconsciously, was sleeping.
By Michael Acciarino4 years ago in Fiction
A Theater on Third Street
Alex insisted we stay out because Martha had given birth to a girl and he didn’t want to be in the same house as it. They decided to name it after himself. “One Alex in the house is good enough,” he said, tugging my sleeve toward the first open pub he spotted. I had nowhere better to be and, since Janice and I separated, could never fall asleep before the crack of dawn. Nine years.
By Michael Acciarino4 years ago in Fiction
The Tempered Horn
Felipe and Rodrigo couldn’t remember how long they’d been standing there in silence. Time no longer mattered in the face of eternity. A waft of sand crystals fluttered in and around Felipe’s nostrils. He sneezed. “Don’t touch him,” said Rodrigo, before extending a small branch and tapping the man’s torn-up pant leg. A black beetle had long been nestled into his sunken left eye socket and, if the boys were to guess, had absorbed the remaining moisture from the eyeball. Obeying Rodrigo’s instruction, Felipe lifted the cowskin sun hat off the dirt floor and pressed it against his scalp in one swift motion. “That’s not yours,” said Rodrigo.
By Michael Acciarino4 years ago in Fiction
