Every night, just before he slept, Armando Vasquez wrung out his brain. He found it the only way to stop the nightmares. He’d gently lift it out, dripping, and look it over. Late at night Armando’s brain was always bigger and more discolored than it was in the morning. It vibrated, full of the day’s activities and anxieties. Gripping each end, he’d let out a little sigh, and thoroughly wring it. Sometimes small objects squeezed through the folds. Once, a small carp plopped out and flopped on the bedroom floor, attracting the notice of Armando’s calico cat. It all depended, really, on the kind of day he’d had. A rare good day and not much manifested itself, a normal bad day and the bedroom floor resembled an over-stocked manger (sans messiah). Most days fell in between. Usually it was just small bits of broken glass, a tooth, a nail. In the morning they’d be gone. [click to continue…]
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