by Stephen D. Gibson

One-eyed man, old and alone. He grins with perfect porcelain dentures, with the smooth shine of a good toilet.

He has been the king of a bloody mountain. He has outrun the horizon, slept like the dead, put scales on fish, eaten peaches on Everest’s peak. He lived in the shadow of the northern lights and under trees that glow green. He has worshipped strange gods.

His tee-shirt says, “Kiss me, I’m a shark!” He stares down the chimps.

For him, the earth is only scorched.

His family sounds like a full stadium, a mob.

In this manner, he disappears.

Stephen D. Gibson studied writing at Purdue University and the University of Houston. His short fiction has appeared in The Southeast Review, Quarterly West, Story Quarterly, Western Humanities Review, and elsewhere. It has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice, Best Microfiction twice, and won an Associated Writing Programs Intro Award for Short Stories.