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Grey Sparrow Journal and Press, as of January 31, 2018 will move to

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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I Know I’m Talking A lot

by Krissy Domm


Can I get you some ice? A wet wash cloth?Sit down, please. I am so sorry. You see, I don’t often have guests over and when I do, I am usually so nervous that I spill drinks on my visitors. I’m also horribly impulsive. Most people don’t belt their friends in the stomach as an alternate way of shaking hands, do they? But I do and that’s why I have no friends.
Please, sit down on the couch; here’s your bourbon. Now let me tell you a little bit about me. I make bread. All the time. I don’t work, so I bake all day. This is how I keep sane, or maybe it’s how I keep insane. I take six cups of flour and stir it in with the oil and water one cup at a time. I take a swig of beer, then knead the dough for ten minutes. This is my therapy. The dough rises after an hour. I punch the dough down, separate it into two equal parts, roll it out, roll it up, then put the two pieces in their own greased bread pan. I let it rise 20 minutes, then bake for 25 minutes, and then it’s done. I do this all day. I never eat it.

Do you want to kiss me? No honey, I know you’re not looking for a permanent gal, and I’m not looking for a permanent guy, so lookee, that’s why we’re perfect for each other.
So, what else do I do in my spare time? I have nothing but spare time, thanks to this fucked up knee of mine. Government assistance is the only way I keep up this posh way of life, ha, ha. Oh, sometimes I knit; sometimes I curdle milk for cottage cheese. But I don’t live in a cottage, so I can’t really call it as much. Mostly though, I just stare out the window at the trees and think of nothing. I know it’s weird. It’s not? See, that is why we are meant to be together. Shut up, I’m not drunk…yet.
What did I do today? Oh, nothing exciting. Let’s see…I slept in, read the paper, drank a couple of cups of coffee, took a nap, got up again, then made some wheat bread. I’m sure that more happened during the day, but nothing worth telling. How about you? Work? I didn’t realize that you had a job. Oh, it’s a new job. Do you mind putting on a happy face everyday for customers? Oh God, I’ve had jobs like that, no offense, but jobs like that make me whole-heartedly suicidal. Do you think about that too? I know, I know, it’s not polite to talk about.
I just can’t do that nine-to-five thing anymore. It kills me. We already discussed that. You want to know about this bruise on my bicep? It was nothing, really. I fell down the stairs. They were icy and I didn’t give a shit about my footing. I was holding a large mug of coffee and it splashed against the house and froze immediately on the vinyl siding. My keys flew over the railing and disappeared into the snow bank. My rear hurt for days. I’m not boring you, am I? I know I’m talking a lot.

Highly Susceptible to Internal Suggestion  


by Krissy Domm 




I once drove my car into a shallow pond.  No, it was not intentional. It was merely impulse that led me by the ear into that pond of cold water. At twelve, I was hit by a car on my bike after making a quick decision to cross the street in front of a car. At fourteen, I shoved a pair of metal tweezers into a light socket out of boredom. At twenty, I drank whiskey and swam in the currents of the Mississippi. Impulse:  the driving force of my life, literally, and now there I was, in that pond of cold water.

One could argue many points as to why I did it. Numerous failed relationships, a compulsion to lose in life, countered with a fear of failure, and so forth.  But really it had nothing to do with that.  It had everything to do with a warning from the mechanic to fix the breaking tie-rods on my vehicle and then my subsequent refusal. I had the money for the repairs, but was suddenly overcome with a craving for ice cream. So I left the mechanic’s in my broken car and drove to the creamery where I bumped into an old foe, but you know how it is when you see a familiar face, all hate melts away. The two of us ate ice cream together and then began to dress our dusty wounds over low balls of bourbon and sloppy apologies at the pub next door. 

The meeting came to an end. There was an extended hug, a wet kiss. We promised to meet again. We left separately. I know it’s wrong to drive like that, so I took the dimly lit back roads. The moon was full and strong in the late autumn sky and as I pulled left on a crucial curve in the road, the tie rods let loose with a shriek and a splash and there I sat, numbed in that pond of cold water.