Fiction, Vol. 2.2, June 2008
Before Mikhail Boyarsky went to prison, he grew his own vegetables.
It was just a short trip. He was visiting friends, but when he returned, the vegetables began to die off. His care for them had waned.
His face grew unkempt and wily.
His eyes went unblinking for stretches of time.
He had witnessed grotesque facts and fresh tomatoes were too tender now for his fingers to pluck from the vine.
His imagination and order were disrupted. His rags stayed clean as his floors gathered dirt.
He printed detailed letters to his friends. Details of this time he could only waste out here in the open, mirroring their own behind walls, bars, and guards.
They never wrote back. They were too angry and bored.
Everyone wanted to believe something different. Oftentimes these things overlapped.
The holding of breath created clots of language.
Once concrete has been poured, there is a limited amount of time in which it can still be argued.