---

Burn Nitro

Say prayers
Say vitamins
Eat, eat, eat
These are the demandments,
brother. Terry Bollea
lied and we let him
back into our hearts.
The New World Order
is for life, brother,
repeated like a mantra
every Monday night.
But he changed costumes,
and we suspended every ounce
of disbelief, so the entirety
of our hearts could be
obliterated once more.
My red and yellow childhood
burned to black and white.
Brother, it’s not coming back.

 

Pyrophytic

cheap plastic strap
on a basic Casio
digital wrist watch
but it can do a countdown
I used to time
everything,
getting to the mailbox
became an Olympic event
the plastic keeps
its own time
becoming rigid
and off color
but it’s yet to crack
still ticks down
‘til the spark comes
flames cleanse
before the soot
bakes on blackened
to be chipped away
like secudine

 

Snapped

Feel the snap in your shoulder,
your elbow. You’ve overextended.
This is how you hurt
yourself, not the adversary.
Do the work for them,
and they’ll make quick work
of you. Off balance.
Delicate movements,
shifting legs. You are looking
for your center. Find emptiness,
then instinct. Arms fly up,
and the blows rain
on textbook defensive form.
Stunned, the opponent looks
into your eyes, which appear
vapid, but are calculating.
You deliver a front kick,
redistribute your weight,
and land the uppercut.
Maintaining balance
as you stamp across
the sprawled body,
you run across
the Denny’s lot
and never stop.

---

Chris Dolan graduated from the University of Iowa with a degree in English and works in the automotive industry. He is angry about the nitrate levels in Iowa’s drinking water. Reader at Black Fox Literary Magazine and Flash Fiction Magazine. Chris’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Maudlin House, and Paragraph Planet. Find him on Bluesky @mcdolan.bsky.social.