Anthony Schneider’s work has been published in McSweeney’s, The Believer, Boldtype, Details, and Mid-American Review, among others. He lives in New York City.
The sound reverberated in my sense of what was right and reliable in the world like drone weaponry, and what I wanted to ask was: what business have you left undone, and did you do a thing you so regretted that you can’t let go of it, was there a person you cut off, when sympathy would have been the better gesture, was there a person you trod on to get ahead in your sales job, speaking ill of them, so that they were forever harmed, did you say something awful about a friend in school, did you call a friend the worst of names in middle school, because it was a thing they said then, the boys did that, only to find, later on, that you loved that boy in a way . . . .
To my beloved sense of security, it’s your perimeter that draws its corners like a belt when it comes down to eating frozen foods out of the ground, each unenvelopment a finer slice of skin, hooped up inside a shuffle to which turns quicken around the other way, like Artaud said about dead bolts, skull-clangor, that rings out.