 Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Anitgonish Review, CV2, Scarlet Leaf Review, PRECIPICe, Existere, Windsor Review, Vallum, The Dalhousie Review, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. 39 Ballerinas and a Cordless Drill gradations in the patchwork my weeping crop duster eyes and they formed a circle without a word deep in the woods graceful as walking sticks: 39 ballerinas and a cordless drill, and the way they danced around the drill you could tell it was a very special drill, kicking their legs high in the air like nylon rockets with hips for thrusters that no man would ever see. Well Hung His mother had this giant chandelier hanging in what I guess they would call the family room nowadays in the front of the house with a large bay window surrounded by chairs so uncomfortable no one would ever sit in them and a couch wrapped in plastic so that even the most adventurous of posteriors would slide right down onto waiting white carpet and I remember opening those books on slavery for a school project and seeing those pictures of the lynchings in the American south and how he looked at the pictures then up to the chandelier and saw the same thing I did and how we never spoke about it or sat in that room again even though there were many sleeping bag sleepovers where you eat too much and sleep too little watching horror movies until sunup where nothing goes well for anyone. Behind the Science Getting up from the chesterfield I walk across the room and look behind the science. The science is constructed of paint and plaster, divides the rooms of a house from one another. But things are fluid: the motion and the shift. Everything changing like a fresh pair of socks. Now I am the science and you are behind me. Pulling at my pigtails from a past life.
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