I pulled a soporific thread of smoke from the tip of a searing knife into my nose with a single breath. Meters of a braided cord slithered from my throat and round an ankle before I crossed the hand- thick curtains. My organs turned to bells as I opened the arc. I touched the stones, fingered the bud, and fell, to be tugged a-jingling back. They dragged foot after foot of a ribbon smeared with the red calligraphy of my ancestors from my ear until I bled to death and everything was over.
— T.K. Edmond is a Fort Worth, Texas writer, musician, and screwup. T.K. is interested in dramaturgy, beauty and cruelty colliding in Texas, and general conceptualism. Recent work can be found in ZiNDaily, Strukturriss, Abridged, Coffin Bell, and forthcoming in Pidgeonholes.