Jim Meirose
Ending the Nine Month Long Important as Hell Corporate Conference Call
               What? sniped the earpiece, rash rough crushing thrusting at Jamed’s ear, saying, What? No? Why now what do you mean no hey what wait a minute Jeff cut the line yeah Jeff like I said cut the audio! Right! So Jeff obeyed generating shuffling plastic on metal clashing while electronically slowing down, pausing silently, stopping, so, yes; go; cut, thus boiling up silence hard sharp and brittle, which packed hard filling Jamed’s ear canal, just like it had more than ten times earlier in the God-damned conference call, with a kind of switch-click then a deeper hollow nothing that all screamed all crazy, the show’s shut off the plug is pulled there will be no more go on and hang up sounds like it might be like it might be it all the way, eh, yes—at the emergence of this hollow nothing meaning everything gone empty noise, Jamed gave up and pulled the phone from his burning with pain ear, the lobe of which was beet-red from having tight pressure applied day after day of this months-long round table dissertation, which might be over now yes or no but it seems the answer is yes because the pulled-down earpiece hissed with sudden sound easily heard that said in every decibel of its elemental incoherence, OK listen now we’re close to the end thank God we’re close to coming so wake up; this pistoned out hard from the hot sweaty earpiece, and plunged further on grinding crushing harder yet against Jamed’s raw red earlobe, pumping in more pain, that grew intense as that experienced when both ears are being slowly slashed off by unwashed men using old kitchen knives for some silly but very evil reason, only bearable in that this version though just as intense, is only momentary and words once more flowed in against Jamed’s tissue thin pink eardrum, smoothly anesthetizing the wounds where the ears feel like they’ve been forcibly removed, and calming him all the way in through all past the drum and on across the hammer anvil and stirrup and on down spiraling into the centrifugal cochlea, down and down straining for the finish line crowd all cheering, being, gone, all hung up, and slammed down, but the phone can’t break no, it’s plastic. And, thank God, thank God, thank God, now he can run and go pee.
               What time is it anyway?
Jim Meirose's short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include No and Maybe - Maybe and No (Pski's Porch). Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
Ending the Nine Month Long Important as Hell Corporate Conference Call
               What? sniped the earpiece, rash rough crushing thrusting at Jamed’s ear, saying, What? No? Why now what do you mean no hey what wait a minute Jeff cut the line yeah Jeff like I said cut the audio! Right! So Jeff obeyed generating shuffling plastic on metal clashing while electronically slowing down, pausing silently, stopping, so, yes; go; cut, thus boiling up silence hard sharp and brittle, which packed hard filling Jamed’s ear canal, just like it had more than ten times earlier in the God-damned conference call, with a kind of switch-click then a deeper hollow nothing that all screamed all crazy, the show’s shut off the plug is pulled there will be no more go on and hang up sounds like it might be like it might be it all the way, eh, yes—at the emergence of this hollow nothing meaning everything gone empty noise, Jamed gave up and pulled the phone from his burning with pain ear, the lobe of which was beet-red from having tight pressure applied day after day of this months-long round table dissertation, which might be over now yes or no but it seems the answer is yes because the pulled-down earpiece hissed with sudden sound easily heard that said in every decibel of its elemental incoherence, OK listen now we’re close to the end thank God we’re close to coming so wake up; this pistoned out hard from the hot sweaty earpiece, and plunged further on grinding crushing harder yet against Jamed’s raw red earlobe, pumping in more pain, that grew intense as that experienced when both ears are being slowly slashed off by unwashed men using old kitchen knives for some silly but very evil reason, only bearable in that this version though just as intense, is only momentary and words once more flowed in against Jamed’s tissue thin pink eardrum, smoothly anesthetizing the wounds where the ears feel like they’ve been forcibly removed, and calming him all the way in through all past the drum and on across the hammer anvil and stirrup and on down spiraling into the centrifugal cochlea, down and down straining for the finish line crowd all cheering, being, gone, all hung up, and slammed down, but the phone can’t break no, it’s plastic. And, thank God, thank God, thank God, now he can run and go pee.
               What time is it anyway?
Jim Meirose's short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include No and Maybe - Maybe and No (Pski's Porch). Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at www.jimmeirose.com @jwmeirose
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