[Home] [Works] [Resources] [The We of Me] [Links]

Frankie is a fluff

Frankie is a fluff who wants to explode my house. To explode my house. To explode it. She bends and, under my table, she grabs the fabrics that wrap my body and laughs. And she floats, Frankie wants to be a boy, she shrugs, she skips. Frankie does not belong to me. Carson put her in her box and I borrowed Frankie from her. If Carson finds out, if she knows that I poked her box, then maybe she will want to beat me up. Furious Frankie, furious Carson, she posted her best drawings in the walls of her house. It happens that when the day ends, Carson sits down to listen to the trumpet lessons of her friends outside her box-and-house, and leaves Frankie to rest in the hammock that the grains of dust make for her among their bodies. And Frankie stays, very still, lethargic in the space that the particles make for her, and she does not ever move, but the clock that she has lost into her fibers keeps running, and it tells her
that Carson has closed her eyes and is only looking for sounds
that the grains of dust are old, dead carcasses, spectrums
And Frankie lets her clock accelerate, and she vibes, and like Carson, she only cares about the beating of her inner musical clock hands. Her clock is no longer a clock, it is the drawing of a bomb that Carson posted in the wall to signal the north of her box-and-house. And Frankie gets up, the bones of the spectrum-dead-carcass dust disintegrate. Frankie has a bomb in her chest, and I uncover Carson’s box-and-house and Frankie jumps and laughs and hides between my legs. Fluff. Carson disintegrates in the dust of the little squares of sound of the trumpet, a trumpet she did not see, very still, particles of a girl who deep inside wanted to be a boy. Now Frankie explodes my house.
And I tell

Susana Gomez