MAY 2009


The Entropy Room
By Andrew S. Taylor, Mar 02, 2009

Stories told too apple falls upwards...prepare for madness...the fracture in flawless appeal to serendipity...creeping vengeance...a flock of empty tables...breath from the lips of corpse-white children...I think the clouds are laughing....purple fists, yellow birds...the trace of starlight through a warm cataract...trails of blood and feather on fresh snow, in blue midnight...a prank in the form of violence... tripping upstairs, catching the hat of the man ahead of me...light bulbs, and the planets that orbit them...soft forms endangered by white blades and blue light...the compass under your pillow deviates from magnetic north when you have nightmares...a small capsule, found in the lining of a briefcase, in green and white halves...the fine print in the advertisement for pharmaceuticals is really an excerpt from a lost Nordic epic...two halves of a peach, one whole pit, one empty socket...something stolen from your pocket but you canít remember what...the subway rumbles underground where there is no line that you know of...the neon glow in the night, but no sign, no window...unlike you, the moon grows larger as it bleeds and declines...the newspaper is back to black and white again...somewhere around the corner, a giant engine roars, unmoving...the elevator rattles on the way up, and the woman standing behind you forget numbers...over the sleeping city, the new aurora creeps...

You pretend, because in heaven, when things crack, there is something to catch them. Because the Empyrean is self-mending. And yet there are always new guests in the entropy room. Something to consider, should the occasion arise.

Andrew S. Taylor is the associate editor of Menda City Review. His novella Swamp Angels will be published in an upcoming anthology from Drollerie Press. His stories have recently appeared in Monkeybicycle, Underground Voices, The Dream People, mud luscious, and Sein und Werden. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, and blogs at