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Working Late
by Eric Beeny

Mortimer rolled himself out from underneath a Toyota Tundra, wiped his hands and his face with the same grease-caked white rag.
    He pulled a Parliament Light from the pack he kept rolled up in the left sleeve of his tee-shirt and got his Zippo out from his dirty Wranglers.
    He lit the cigarette, got up to go sit at his desk.
    He looked at the clock.
    3:47 am.
    If his wife wasn't asleep she was probably worried about him, and he felt guilty about all the time he'd been spending at the shop, not telling his wife where he was.
    At least when he went out drinking he called to tell her he'd be home soon.
    Mortimer thought about his kids, looking at the pictures of happy people framed in gold sitting there on his desk.
    He wasn't in any of them.
    A bead of sweat began pushing through a pore in his forehead.
    It was like a nine pound infant taking on the likeness of a dew drop made of milk.
    It was like a two-foot-long baby breaking its mother Mortimer's water.
    It was actually an idea which tricked Mortimer into passing this child from the womb of his skull through a vaginal pore in the middle of all the other vaginas embedded in his forehead and into the world.
    Actually, the idea and the bead of sweat were twins, and the idea was that Mortimer should be very careful with this thing.
    He sat down to think hard about how to handle this fragile bead of sweat, turning it over and over in his hands, until it slipped through his fingers and broke into tiny pieces on the floor.
    "Shit," he said.
    He wiped his brow, thinking he'd have to spend the rest of the night carefully building another one just like it.

About the author:
Eric Beeny's poems and stories have appeared in
Abjective, Corduroy Mtn., Elimae, KORA, Thieves Jargon, and others. Several e-chaps of his poetry have been published by Gold Wake Press, for which he's recently become a contributing editor. His blog is Dead End on Progressive Ave. ( He lives in Buffalo, NY. He's 28.

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