suburban family yard sale

AUTHOR: Arianna

EDITOR: Kallie E. Sage

the alien invasion is documented live. can you see the blood leaking through your TV screen? there is a raw sensation in knowing you are next — a kind of comfort in the predictability of it all. look behind you. showers of acid and sugar coalescing on the ground. bury their bodies. check your feed for updates. a child’s face glitters, starstruck, under the explosion of a passing car.

ON SALE — Two round eyeballs, brown. Pick up at the women’s shelter on East.

you used to look just like the mannequin in the window, all polished and perfect. now your roots twin your slick wrist, twisting and turning beneath the dirt. don't fret, though. they like you better frozen solid, knees bent in song-like prayer, growing ripe tomatoes where you used to sleep. shh. go to sleep. shut your eyes. you are nothing but movable skin and bones.

ON SALE — A packet of cigarettes, missing the top. Trade for rum or vodka.

the fish are drowning. the cheetahs have run themselves thin. the lions’ voices are hoarse and rest killed the curiously unbothered cat. at sunset the ocean is a mess of pale, scattered light and the sky is a deep bluish-green. the jellyfish have lungs and it is killing them. the humans have hearts and it is killing them. breathe, little trout. stick out your tongue until it burns. it's the new fashion.

ON SALE — Fish scales. Pretty and yellow. Trade for rations or bubblegum.

you watch it on your TV screen. you watch it cross into your country, your home, your backyard. you clutch your daughter tighter and pray it will be over soon. at her request, you switch the channel. the end of your world is accompanied by cheery guitar music and fat animated pigs.

ON SALE — A heart. Gave out one day. Pink and tasty and small.

ON SALE — A childhood home. Furniture and jewelry included.

ON SALE — A family pack of phones. Three barely used, one dead.