Route 7 Review - Page 125

When the board arrived, Jimmy was strapped to it and carried out of the dining hall. His head writhed and thrashed as he hollered and spat gibberish laced with bird calls and obscenities. The sinews of his neck bulged, and his face was reddish purple. It wasn’t until later that they found out his mother had actually died. His father called minutes after they had injected Jimmy with a PRN and placed him in isolation. Jimmy was not stable enough to attend the wake or funeral. Nobody in attendance seemed to notice that two crows, one large and one small, had perched on Jimmy’s mother’s headstone while the eulogy was read. The birds flew away as soon as they began lowering the casket into the earth. Jimmy’s four-year-old cousin Samantha pointed at them with a stubby finger. “Mama, the big birdies flew away.” “Yes, dear, those were crows.” “Crows. They’re ugly. I don’t like ‘em one bit.” Brett Petersen has devoted his life to writing because he derives utmost joy from sharing his imagination with the world. Since graduating from the College of Saint Rose with a B.A. in English in 2011, his fictions have appeared in journals such as Loud Zoo, Peculiar Mormyrid, Centrifuge and Polychrome Ink. Other passions of his include playing drums in the band BlanSlate and working as a Creative Consultant for Mushroom Studios, an art and souvenir company. He has lived in Albany NY for most of his life.