The black man who approached from the rear of the gathering at my father's burial looked to be one hundred years old. He was frail, but not bent. He walked haltingly, supported by two black ... [+]
A.J. is a writer and filmmaker from Chicago. He writes critical essays, video essays, short stories, and the occasional odd poem. You can find more of his work at ajrocca.com "The Break" is in Short Circuit #06, Short Édition's quarterly review.
Jude always ordered hot coffee when he was falling apart. He leaned back in his booth and pressed his hands into the porcelain, trying to drink in the heat through cold fingertips. He couldn't taste it anymore, of course, and he could just barely feel it, but the ghost sensation of heat helped anchor him in the present, the here and now in the Denny's on Sunset. It was the only thing that felt real when everything else was coming undone: the capillaries unravelling, tendons fraying at the ends, his bones riddled with worm holes like old, old wood. The synapses in his brain weren't firing right