Fiction from Benjamin Niespodziany

Photo: Luke Southern

Guadalajara Funeral Parlor

I am in an apartment in Guadalajara across from a 24 hour funeral parlor that never stops partying. In this dream, children grip pistols that shoot black flags. Pristine limousines breathe tattered tassels. The bereaved own the district. They stuff trumpets in each hearse and blurt dirges through the speakers. I understand Spanish but not the songs they sing. Tiny women lift grief on their backs in black knapsacks. Their husbands and sons dig graves behind the funeral home and watch as the women bury all they carry. Police ride past with lights flashing like discoteca taxis dancing through the night. The grieving group of black suits and white shirts slur curse words and kick dirt at the officers. Drunk piano keys mumble, grab their hats, wake their wives, stumble on home, one less member in the group to kiss one cheek, two cheeks, goodbye, goodbye.
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Benjamin Niespodziany has had work published in Fairy Tale Review, Hobart, Paper Darts, and various others. He works in a library in Chicago and runs the multimedia art blog [neonpajamas].