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I wish there were a word for this

Jeannie Vanasco


A compressed sandwich of clowns as bright as an arcade game emerge from my neighbor’s rusted clunker. My God, they look beautiful and dangerous, never-ending strings of black handkerchiefs wrapped around their necks like nooses, a bold light emitted from their rainbow-colored eyes. I try to think of plain things: milk jugs, town halls, paper boys, aluminum gliders, but they’ve become strange. A plane that looks like a plane flies overhead. I wish I were riding it.





Jeannie Vanasco lives in Brooklyn, New York. Her writing has appeared in the Believer, Coffin Factory, Tin House, and elsewhere.

A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure. - Henry David Thoreau


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