(EDIT): [        ]

Taylor McGill



My BFF and I wake up on a blimp floating in the ocean. A thought: this is not the function of a blimp. If a blimp is exercising its buoyancy in a liquid, such as saltwater, is it not a blimp but a boat?

My BFF and I wake up on a (edit): [boat] floating in the ocean. Portions of the vessel are on fire. Opposite my BFF and I, the boat Captain perched as if on a chaise longue. Positioned as if an affluent woman. As if failing to contain his breasts in a strapless party dress. He stretches an arm in the direction of my BFF and I and the arm makes an intimate revelation: bone. We could be friends, the Captain and I. I think to offer him a flute of pale champagne, but my hands are empty. The Captain is on fire. A thought: the Captain—he is a certified expert in aeronavigation. He is not the captain of a boat; rather, a burning blimp pilot positioned as if sunning himself on, not a boat nor a long leather chair, a crashed blimp.

My BFF selflessly crabwalks the length of the (edit): [blimp] towards the burning pilot and pushes him into the ocean with a shy foot. His body (rest in peace) sinks. Releases an audible hiss. A tiny, black smoke string. In this holy moment I possess the urge to catch it before it unravels. "What a shame, what a shame." I could recite this for days.

What is this vague religious feeling? Hesitant blah-blah? Without operator—on what thing are we sitting? As what do I treat it if it is any thing at all?

My BFF looks at me and I am on fire. Your hair, she says. I think: her hair too, but it is just the sun hot behind her. I pat my head and my hands catch fire. Your hands, she says. I wipe my hands on my knees. Your knees, she says. I touch her lips. I say: your mouth. And she is quiet.

Making the effort to stand, I hear the touching together of synthetic opioid pills in the pocket of my cargo pants. I reach a hand into my pocket and my pocket catches fire. I place a pill in my mouth. My lips catch fire. My tongue. My neck. My BFF reaches into her pocket and eats a synthetic opioid. Her hands. Her arms up to the elbow; elegant dressing gloves. The features of my BFF that used to distinguish her from the end of a cigarette ash onto the blimp. I suspect my best features, too, are ruined. But (thank Scientists) I am mostly unfeeling.

Wind blows some of my BFF into my heap. Some of mine into hers. Some of (edit): ours into (edit): ours. (edit): [Dust] into (edit): [ocean]. A thought: we cannot blow into the same ocean twice. (edit): [Once]. (edit): [Something about salt].