A man stares at a painting of a seagull. He tries to hear the seagull, feel the breeze against his skin. After a while, he stands and puts his face as close as he can toward the picture. Each element – the faint cerulean skyline, the lighter hues of the beach – break down into individual flecks of color. Instead of the smell of the sea, he gets turpentine, other mysterious oils. The only sound he hears is his heartbeat. He stretches his arms, hoping to flap them like wings. This awful body, he thinks, how will I escape it? The floorboards rattle; a train passes below. With a loud, desperate cry, the man falls to his knees. In another apartment, someone hears and rolls their eyes.
Jack is a queer writer and visual artist living in Brooklyn, NY. His prose and poetry can be found in YES POETRY, GHOST CITY REVIEW, OUROBOROS, THE DENVER QUARTERLY, and MASCULINITY: AN ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN VOICES (Broken Sleep Books).
