Cock Finger Hunchback

Ben Segal



A handshake? Of course not.

Wait. Now. This Six I'll stretch to pull for chapel bells. That sound; it touches you no doubt.

They're real, these dicks, my fingers. So hard to hold this pen! So hard, holding this pen is! Sorry dear, a small slipped joke. This hump or hunch backs me into, up to my pealing corner. I take what jokes I can squeeze out.

I'm mostly just a dull cocked ringer. Hourly and loveless I stiffen with the bells, to leak vitality, to coo the doves that come feasting from these fists. My salty gel doves! My lapsing communion! It's ringing out, sloughing off into city air! I miss it as you no doubt miss the ground or open door.

First a bit of past before the pleasing. The Father gave me my employ, coarse ropes to tug, a wage of course, coarse bread, my bed. I've hardened and stopped him up. A handshake?

Of course not. See his robes in the ropes. There's a spot for resting doves. I can gather the man's cloth to drape you. I can go right out on the ropes. A clamberer he calls me, his constant chafing clamberer, his peeling pealer, the catholic phallic tollman. His doved and humping plugger. So hide your flesh. I hate to see it shrinks from me already.

Here. Catch. That's a white to suit you.

Try to ignore the damp. It's last night's. He crawled to me, the Father, stripped and crying, sleep pisser. I had him light a censer for the smell. He curled soft and jowled, shook the urine from his flaps. Hear him pace beneath us, practicing for mass.

The Father doesn't shower days after. He steeps for lingering shame. I've no need for aging fluids, bent as I am, handed suchly, so doved. What fortune, to be blessed with born humility and this firm handshake!

This letter? You'll take it to the Father, yes please, but after. We're nearly finished. Now's nearly time. Time again for pulls and ringing. Watch them scatter, my doves, to the sky with sound waves. Now to me darling. Now your eyes to my below. I pack no threat, this wrecked flesh only mounding its folds.

I'll not force the pleasing. As before. Of course not. You see I'm a man of dignity, just misshapen. No childish thumbsucking here, no pull-my-finger avuncular ruse. But yes, to leave. What I ask is. Of course.





Ben Segal is the author of '78 Stories' (No Record Press, 2008). He has chapbooks forthcoming from Publishing Genius Press and ML Press and his short fiction has appeared in various publications including Lamination Colony, Eyeshot, elimae, and 3AM Magazine. He is also a regular contributor to Ghost Island.