"Manakin Over Glass" by Roger Camp (Mud Season Review, issue 67)
by Amyr Said
As I flail my arms, almost knocking everything from my nightstand, trying to grab my phone to turn off my alarm, I get a message notification. The place you were looking to move into has been occupied. Because bad news always comes in bunches, another message follows, this time from a different number. Your rent is due. Ah, my landlord. Always impeccable with his timing. Never lets me forget when the month has turned over. In fact, I could save some money and not buy a calendar—that will help close the balance sheet at the end of the month. Oh! I know! I could sell the strands of hair that always gather on the floor. Grab them by the bundle and pawn them to a wigmaker. While I’m at it, I could gather the dust that has been sitting all over every shelf and the books therein, as well as on my desk in harder to reach areas. I could make little dust statues and sell them online; that’s an untapped niche. Look at me! An entrepreneur in the making! Raspe would’ve been so proud! If I fit in another gig in the meantime, I will finally be in good standing with my rent.
I rush around my room, mining all that gold that I once took for trash. I find a portrait. The frame is smudged and yellowed with age. The colors are faded, as if the film had burned before the picture could be revealed.
It’s a group of children playing in the living room and some adults talking in the back dining room. Time is sucked out of existence. I stare and stare at the photograph. My friends and me. Our faces stained with paint. We were pretending to be a cover band, rocking out to a song that must’ve been playing on MTV. I remember the sick bass lines I would play with my air bass, and my friend would kill on his air drums. Once the air guitar solo was done, we’d sing every word of the song in unison.
I gasp for air. Time resumes ticking. There is no time for dreaming—let alone daydreaming. I have to get a move on, make my money, pay my bills. Do you think I could sell dreams too?
I rush around my room, mining all that gold that I once took for trash. I find a portrait. The frame is smudged and yellowed with age. The colors are faded, as if the film had burned before the picture could be revealed.
It’s a group of children playing in the living room and some adults talking in the back dining room. Time is sucked out of existence. I stare and stare at the photograph. My friends and me. Our faces stained with paint. We were pretending to be a cover band, rocking out to a song that must’ve been playing on MTV. I remember the sick bass lines I would play with my air bass, and my friend would kill on his air drums. Once the air guitar solo was done, we’d sing every word of the song in unison.
I gasp for air. Time resumes ticking. There is no time for dreaming—let alone daydreaming. I have to get a move on, make my money, pay my bills. Do you think I could sell dreams too?
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Over the pandemic, Amyr Said (he/him) delved into the realm of philosophy. Now he uses it to deconstruct and make sense of this crazy world. Digging deep and breaking perceptions into smaller bits, he uses writing and art to build accessible ideas of a better world. Instagram @Gazeitte
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