Winter 2017, Richard Loranger

The Svelte Stilettos Of A Frozen Stillicide 

Richard Loranger


“The svelte stilettos of a frozen stillicide”
— Nabokov

He scrimmed his way through sleep to a tangle of dreamy sheet. It having snown, his awakenitude was not as vivulous as usual. The blare of glare was seeping out of every thingy plot and through his lidded stare. The beepbeepbeep entranced his skirted ear. His brain was mirey fine.

Somewhere in the milk his hand became a silencer. There is a torture method which has been perpetrated on the masses, called the 4-minute sleep. Thus he wrenched again with the siren, tearing through the veil, and shuddered to a quivering sit. A yawn emboweled his catalytic veins, and up he not-quite-leapt to a mirror’s eye. Things looked not-quite-familiar, herding in the crannies as it were. The job was seeing in his ears: “Come to me, my licky one, come, come…” A dizz attacked his sudden head; he tangoed with the chair, and caught his breath and self at once. They scened of cave.

What are clothes at dawn? He nabbed some unclear things, and stummled out the door. The lengthless hallway rode beneath him in a limey trance. He screed downstairs in a clump and groped the watery closet with all his tendonous need.

Once bolted, the ritual began: the pocus, re-minding of the meat: he gorged himself in tiny dances, spappling remnants of the night, cording and splewing, provocating, masculating, natting, scratting, scraping, naping, unjugating, rivulating—all the muted mysteries of men. There was water, water everywhere. His bones were ebullating briny stew. The air was thick from the source. There is certainly prehistory in the mind. He untrenched himself with a birthy splurge. Not a soul ungouged.

He emerged with dauntless caution back to the tenuous world, retracing dream-soaked steps and trailing placenta in the chill air. He found as ever climbing stairs steeps its own geography. His room was where he slept and kept his things, which weren’t quite his today—an unsettling dispossession quipped about the spine. You are possessed by that which you imagine you possess. He grapped around the room, cramming vague items—then ripped the cord, dove the falls, flung the volving halls, out the hole, down the burning steps and into the needling shine.

The precarious day stung the optic in a shree chorale. Not a sound breeked the frizzid air, and yet the word was hanging breath. Light unfolded and he harked an altered place, dazing unjawed at the scape—everything was changed, utterly changed, transfixed in an overlay. What comfort was this? The blanket tore silence through the air, squelched houses, puffed trees and cars to approximations. The stilettos hung. Everything scintillated glints. Mounding heaps reaped the splay. A passing fish became a jeep, split the shield, and whizzed him to alert. He trammeled off through the crackling crunch, awing at the crysted cant.

Clump, clump, clump toward the job, the lovely job. He found with some dis-ease his rutted route was undermined by the enwondered world, which rooked him drifting through the tweaky streets. There are moments when the whole world hangs on an edge, and all we do is wait fortune. He mazed through blocks he swore he’d never seen, soaking portent through his iffy pores. Still the job was bungied to his chest, veering him to the suckhole. The street was morninging around him. He quickened up his tramp. Then in a start he brinked the shoreline of a spansing freeze, gleamed sheet that swept him in its snickering sheen.

He skizzed out onto the ice with accidental grace. Only his slipsoles clung him to the slizzy ground. He sclick sclick sclicked minutest navigations, tense to the pits, neck bowed, solving smacks in the pave. He strained ahead with perilous impend, when his head contacted another straining skull, crack in the crown, echoed thud torquing through a common grunt. Both recoiled, neither fell, and as they gaped the other’s muffled form, they brimmed a timeless melt they’d felt before, eyebeams twined, each whelmed a chested O from parting lips, and spectrified lives and lives corded in the fray, merging all but fleshly. The individual corrodes at slightest touch, and we are always touched. They stood a moment trading faces. Then their spines reviled the stun, shivered matrices, and each glanced out, parted lace, and crept on.

He had no world now but light. He motored spectral in the stream, inflecting rays with every glassy swish of his lumened org. The light was sheer, though not a solar light that speared him through, searing the retinal gate. The glare of love was ringing in his song-stung eyes.



Richard Loranger is a writer, performer, visual artist, and all around squeaky wheel, currently residing in Oakland, CA. His most recent book of flash prose, Sudden Windows, was released by Zeitgeist Press in 2016. Recent work can be found in Oakland Review #2, Overthrowing Capitalism vol. 2 (Revolutionary Poets Brigade), and the anthology I Let Go of the Stars in My Hand (great weather for MEDIA). You can find more about his work and scandals at

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