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To Cordoba, Then, Ceramic Spur by Basil Rosa | Word Riot
Flash Fiction

July 15, 2011      

To Cordoba, Then, Ceramic Spur by Basil Rosa

Dropped on mail-train platform, she smashes. (Wasn’t stamped fragile.) One more start to her, invisible rover with lenses – a lease, a glimpse, dangerous thoughts. Such assumptions and fiats once defined her.
     Should she feel embarrassed by her past? She could, she supposed, command attention. It’s what she learned in school, pressing nipples to windows in rooms of clotted hungers, each wall coated in shades of rain.
     Beware the cop-lovers, she thinks; beware crowded parking lots; beware theories on insulation when winter comes. Grey curling flakes from her abandoned hives.
     She will get busy. She’ll view an art show at a school for so-called problem children. Make an eccentric juvenile feel wanted. Visit herself.
     If she holds up a jar of tongues, would each dance out, one at a time, crowing, “I am the new baroque aesthetic?”

     The only people who could answer such a question were artists living in Manhattan. The rest she was told were ignorant peons.
     You mean you, an artist, didn’t know this? It’s the first thing they teach.
     She had a drama once, driven intentions, but they crawled into a ceramic coffin shaped like a spur kicking away to Cordoba. See, some cowboy ran off with the best of her. This, she tells herself, explains her fencer’s lunge into composition.
     Stitched up, little about her adorned, she plunges phobias du jour into wads of dried-gist tattoo prints inspired by Dürer and Mom’s favorite wallpaper. She returns to that room where it all began, where Mom castrated the old man with a tuning fork, and drowned him in a vat of gelato.
     She gets back on the mail-train, and she rides.

John Flynn

About the author:

Basil Rosa is the pen name of John Flynn. Visit for more information.

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