Vilnius, by William Cordeiro (forthcoming in issue 19)

Another dusk slips its guillotine. Mummy-shriveled, I have lost
myself down narrow, cobblestone streets in the Jewish quarter
that wend as corkscrewily as crotch-hairs; cloud-sludged sky-
lights perma-grey within defunct Soviet apartment complexes.

Expect continued snowfall. Prepare for fresh-cleaned, starched
infirmary sheets. A star-needle skips on the soft tissue of a voice
box. Tourists traipse through guessing games; guilt trip on gelt
in a city of pinchbeck disco and swirly-doo onion domes, a Frank

Zappa statue, and a basketball team best remembered for their tie-
dyed warm-ups. Chug Pixy Stix and stagger back to hail a gypsy
cab. Drop a dimebag in a busker’s hurdy-gurdy case. Professional
mourners resume protocol. But nobody offers them the time of day.

This is a dry run. Or has the gentle reader turned to leave the room?