By David Henson

The marriage sutures the wings back onto the bat, rubs the nub to help the lizard grow back its tail. With puffs of breath, the marriage coaxes a spider into crawling clockwise around its nose, tracks down the woman with one blue eye, one brown and smuggles her hairlock into her purse.

The marriage is all swinging arms and whistle till it sees the holes of sunlight in its shadow.

Clothes leap from the closets as it searches for the long-lost mojo it tried to ignore. By the time it reaches the old dresser in the cellar, its fingers pass through the wood whenever it tries to open a drawer. 

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David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Bright Flash Literary Review, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn and Moonpark Review. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.