from COLUMNAR TRANSPOSITIONS Columns “A,” “B,” and “I” have previously appeared in the anthology Expat 5.Thanks for reading Chlorophyll & Hemoglobin! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. COLUMN “L” SIGNS : She Isn’t Going Nowhere Soon. “Online dating is like a first person shooter, but for women,” he said. She got up, went to the kitchen for lemonade, added ice to the juice-jug, came back to the living room, and poured it all over his head and lap. Then she banged out the kitchen door and into her beaten car, drove off giving the finger to the shirtless wet guy in the doorway. She drove around all night watching neon morph into a thousand shapes and listening to Gethsemane Delusion on the radio. It’s blackened death metal with killer guitar riffs arcane like something even Aleister Crowley was afraid to read. The streets were laid out like a microchip no they weren’t. She got a butter pecan ice cream cone and a 40-ounce of Carling Black Label and drove out to Science Hill and saw a man on an ATV with a nude woman clinging to his back. She was wearing only a silver motorcycle helmet. The Lemonade Girl sat and watched the naked woman disappear and she drank 20 of the 40 and nervously shredded up Burger King receipts strewn around the inside of the beaten car. Online dating was not like a first person shooter. It was like a lottery for monster people. Cute goblin girls teasing men in skimpy outfits. Zombies in couples therapy. Mummy divorce. Werewolf dates, Dracula blood is a “red flag” in the lingua franca of the single girl on okcupid. Giant women, 500 feet tall, on Tinder swiping right on King Kong. Guinness Records Often Win The Height Sight: GROWTHS : Generally, Rental Owners Won’t Trade Home Steps. The Church Janitor as a kid wanders around the neighborhood picking up pieces of trash on the sidewalks. He has this thing where he can’t help but pick up paper that has writing on it. He has to see what was written there. His eyes drink alphabets. His pockets are filled with notes and grocery lists left behind. The geology of the city, outcroppings of refuse. Broken fences, upper tree branches growing outside the yard. Moms with big feet watch the kids playing in the paved-over playground where knees are flayed of skin, kids skidding to a stop on their knees. Kids biting the dust, gums full of gravel. The Civil War memorial statue watches from the square. They say you can tell how the officer died by how many of the horse’s hooves are touching the ground. Four: he died in bed. Three: he died of war wounds but later. Two: he died in battle. Bullets fly like someone laid everything over with quadrille paper and plotted straight flight lines. Kids buy chocolate milk and candy from the corner store. Someone sleeping turns over in the cardboard box. They know what life is. Cats seek for skunks. Hydrants get fixed. Springtime pimps glide in old salt-bottom cars. Sample Year, Most Pussy Trained Over Many Seasons : SYMPTOMS : Say, You Might Put Two On Magenta, Sir. The gay parts of the dream bookstore, the majority of the aisles, are wreathed in shadow, while the hetero corner-section is well lit with track lighting. There’s a book there with selections from “George Bat Eye.” Get all caught up with the “Bat Eye” kids. Did you get enough horror to eat? It’s the difference between an eye jumping from video cliff to video cliff, a dexterous goat clinging to rock-sides. Static-scabs on the video skin surface. Auto-mute automatically. Selective mutism of the children impedes murder investigations, must haul in the estranged father who, paradoxically, the kids will “talk near.” You have 24 hours to figure out what’s wrong with the digital recording device — why all the menus are blank. No replacement. The kids whisper about the shadow woman. She matches some of the fact pattern, enough to make you wonder about the missing box of bullets. The sike-ologist suggests she’s a coping mechanism to avoid admitting the true suspect into the shared consciousness tank. On episode 14 of the true crime podcast she is nothing more than a background sound effect lurking that makes you sit up out of bed in a garment of terror-sweat after the day-mare nap. You fell asleep 1/2-way during episode 2 and the podcast just went on autopilot for hours like a slowly leaking pipe. You heard it all but only on a less-than-conscious wavelength. Therefore she owns you and you don’t even know what she is. Can All Necromancers Catch Enigma Rats?