By Seamus Mullin
She could not shower for three days because the water made her nervous. It was a fever of the brain. It was a complete loss of control. If not for the letters, she would have forgotten her own name.
She waited along the route of the heroes’ parade to see her soldier returned. He was filthy too, with desert sand embedded like insurgents in his pores. They were invisible, but she could see them.
She took him in her arms and licked down the side of his neck to taste the destabilizing molecules. They were marshaled for ruin. She savored the taste of everything falling apart.
Seamus Mullin is a Brooklyn transplant by way of Chicago. He received his undergrad degree from NYU and has returned this year to begin a master’s degree in Irish Studies. A few of his stories were previously published in the inaugural outing of online literary magazine Outcryer. When he is not toiling at his desk job, Seamus works on his fiction, or better put, when he is not toiling with his fiction, Seamus spends a lot of time at his desk job. Seamus is currently working on a novel-length project that will hopefully find their way along the long, winding road to publication.