that monster there...

“It’s just a pile of rocks.” “Says who?” “I’m saying it. I’m looking at it. It’s a pile. It’s rocks.” “Think Smithson, think, Maria, think...” “Flintstone.” “This is my submission.” “Even thought I’m telling you there’s no chance this will be curated into the show? Even though I’m saying, right here, right now, I wont take it...” “My work is in Art In America.” “Show it to them.” “I received the Yanich Initch Itchynich earlier this year.” “There’s a cream for that.” “You’re saying you don’t like it.” “Bingo.” “Have you really looked at it.” “I’m afraid so.” “Is it that bad?” “Oh boy.” “But you show crap. I figured, crap...” “I don’t do angry artist well.” “That’s’ a fact.” “Have you tried next door? They’ll love you next door.” “I just came from there.” “It was nice to meet you.” “Meet me? Margret, you represented me for six years, what are you talking about?” “I thought you looked familiar.” “I really need ...

        “It’s not encephalitis,” said Major. “I’m pretty sure it’s encephalitis,” replied Shine. “My head’s killing me, the light is just so painful” Major waved a hand in the air and stirred the dusty sunlight. “ So bright! It’s a bright beautiful day.” “For you. You don’t have encephalitis.” “Maybe he has meningitis.” “It’s warm in here. Is it warm in here?” “I”m confused.” “It’s the swelling.” “If he’s confused it might be meningitis.” Binky stood on a chair. “ Meningoencephalitis!” “Is that possible?” asked Shine. “I didn’t know...”   “See, this is why hypo-group doesn’t work! Who had the idea? All we do is share diseases! Two hypochondriacs in one room is a problem, four of us is... four is...”  Major closed her notebook quietly, pushed her chair back just enough to take in the whole circle, the circle of four. With her included, a circle o...

     People called him Shine, and those that knew forgot to smile and those that didn't wouldn't have anyhow, but the fact was this: Shine was short for sunshine, which was, at least poetically, the inverse of cloudy, which had connotations of dark and stormy, or just plain gloomy, and that was what he was most of the time - dark, cloudy, or stormy - and that's why no one called him Gary, or Gimpy, as his father and brother had before the two of them drowned in the bottom of the duck pond, soggy in the Dodge with a dead bottle of Jack pierced through the windshield like an ugly reminder of a bad idea. Most people who met him were happy enough with not calling him anything, or pretending at least that they didn't notice the damp, dim shadow of his presence. An embarrassing ploy on an elevator but he couldn't  blame them. He thought about it some mornings while he stood in front of the bathroom mirror drawing black marker circles on the glass around the dark...