j. l. navarro


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Meeting the devil is not easy.  It took me years to get an appointment; and now, after all that effort, is doesn't look as if I'm going to shake his hand.  I'm being torn into a hundred chaotic chunks of flaming flesh and bone, my viscera is vaporizing and being slapped hard against flying rock, splintered wood and fragmented metal.  I am history.


Death by explosion is not as quick as people think.  Physical laws are suspended.  Inexpedient time is reduced to such an extent that an Indy car at full throttle is slower than a desert tortoise on a stroll.  No less than everything we do in life is in preparation for this moment, the final exit, the sweet good-bye, the eternal sleep. 


Teeth, evenly lined and expensively repaired, crafted to gnash all manner of food, are shattered and gouged out by their roots as the metal taste of blood rushes down my throat and I feel the vertebrae behind my neck snap and pull apart with such anticipated violence that I know instantly I am going to be decapitated.





This story is included in The Blood Cake Vendor and Other Stories.