Soundzine

On Death

read by katy beasley

 I dance on death's gigantic head. Like a tiny pissed-off Barbie mariachi, I dance, splintering scalp with every stamp of my makeshift platform tap shoes. Soon death's head brims with divots and bumps like a backyard with big dogs. I delight as its yowls outsound six brass horns, six reeds, six maracas. Percussion, concussion, percussion, concussion. Death's hair is growing sparse, blood gushing from the bald spots. A part of me thinks I should stop this syncopated nonsense, but I've paid the band to play all night, besides, the prick's still standing.