By Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois


I was on my way to a concert in Israel when I was captured by terrorists. After some negotiation, they told me that they were going to disembowel me. Their knife was an instrument high, pure and clear. I willed myself to disappear.


The cosmonauts crashed the sound barrier and sideswiped the Berlin Wall, leaving slashes of metallic blue paint. On that questionable basis, the Democrats hired them to break down the wall that Donald Trump had erected on the southern border of the American Empire.


They were actually doing me a favor. I had begged them not to behead me. I told the guy who replaced Jihadi John that I would suck his dick (and did). That bought me a little time in which they decided to disembowel me instead. It was like someone taking mercy on Lawrence of Arabia before he ran off the road on his motorbike, as Jackson Pollack also did, and a lot of other people.


After that, the Cosmonauts got jobs running the irritable locomotives that pull the Alphabet Train.

Hello! Hello! Alphabet Train!

A Train, Apple Train, B Train, Banana Train, H Train, Hobo Train


I willed myself to disappear, like in a former life when I willed myself to pick the right lottery numbers and to give up my fetishes and also to stop being so damn cruel to my children, but willing myself to succeed had never worked for me, and willing myself to disappear was pure psychosis.


There they are, old cosmonauts, sitting on the park bench with the sign: This bench is for Captain Hatton, much loved husband and father, except for that decade when he had the affair with that Venezuelan slut and broke our mother’s heart, which made us hate him for a while, but we eventually forgot it, and even the FBI refused to hold it against him, despite his high security clearance and all the secrets embedded in the layers of his Raytheon flesh and ITT soul.  Mom even came back from Nebraska, where she’d gone to reconnect with her dry dry roots.


My psychosis was an instrument high, pure and clear, like the knife that Jihadi George was sharpening, as if he had gotten a PhD in medieval Japanese poetry and, unable to get a job in academia, had been reduced to being a murderer for the Islamic State.

Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois has had over a thousand of his poems and fictions appear in literary magazines in the U.S. and abroad. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and Queen’s Ferry Press’s Best Small Fictions for work published in 2011 through 2015. His novel, Two-Headed Dog, based on his work as a clinical psychologist in a state hospital, is available for Kindle and Nook, or as a print edition. To see more of his work, google Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois. He lives in Denver.

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