by Tuckerman Wunderle
Skorsgard lingered outside of a cafe, wondering whether to turn left or right. He had a few hours before his meeting with Huxley, and was determined to spend it in a way consistent with the dignity of his new position. He adjusted his tie and smoothed his grease-licked hair to the back of his head, upper lip twitching slightly. He decided to go right, taking a few steps down the block, then grimaced and turned back the other way, snapping his fingers to make it appear as if he had forgotten something. Back past the door of the cafe, walking faster, walking but waiting, walking while knowing what was bound to come, what would surely come any minute now, walking faster, his feet falling rapidly against the pavement, walking quickly, walking with his lip twitching more violently now, twitching so he put his hand up to hide it, twitching in brutal, vivid anticipation as he broke into a run, running away and maybe it wouldn’t come and maybe it wouldn’t happen and maybe-
“Hey bastard, hey you stinking bastard”
Skorsgard stopped, looking up sheepishly.
“Yes you, smelly bastard! What did you forget something? Why are you walking so quickly, huh? Stupid bastard. Stinking bastard.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Skorsgard cowered, sprouting wings and flying clear out of the neighborhood.
About the Author:
Tuckerman Wunderle is a painter, filmmaker, musician, and poet working out of Roxbury, Massachusetts. He has been making art since taking up the piano at age 4, most recently focusing on the mediums of poetry and sketch. Currently a junior at Emerson College, he is editor in chief at Uncle Tiger Publishing House, a small literary collective, as well as a main contributor to the print publication HC Poetry. Across all mediums, Tuckerman’s focus is on the mystery and nuance in life, hoping to highlight how everything is infinitely more complex and absurd than any of us could hope to imagine.