Eleven creatures hover on the surface of the sun. Eleven philanthropists tossed into a ring of angry bulls. Eleven survivors were then killed by questionable motives that could not be resolved within eleven days. Eleven piranhas can eat through a three thousand pound prized cow in eleven hours. Ten men were admitted into a psychiatric ward in Manhattan this morning; the eleventh went on to burn down a bank downtown. Eleven is a baker’s dozen minus two for the pastry chef because he deserves his reward. That baker went on to eat fifty more doughnuts that very morning, thus causing him to gain eleven pounds, making him very fat and very full. He took the Eleven Train downtown to commit himself to a psych ward, only to be turned down. The baker burned down the bank on Eleventh Street. It took eleven men to extinguish the fire. Case closed.


Copyright: © 2011 K.C. Callagy


The Earth cracked open the day K.C. Callagy was born. He is a violent sleeper who admires mirrors with muddied reflections. He once stared at a pool of water for twenty straight minutes to induce a migraine. Firing squads have recruited him as the last cigarette lighter for death row inmates. At the age of thirty he’ll remove all of his shirt sleeves with dull scissors for the edge. Mr. Callagy can be very confrontational if he hasn’t eaten grapefruit, so take precaution in the early hours. Perhaps his unorthodox behavior should be institutionalized, but for the time being, he’s roaming with familiar wild beasts in the pack of bewilderment. In the grand pecking order, he sits near the bottom, passing bread with smudged fingertips, eager to climb the ladder. He wants to own the world but refuses to pay the brutal cost. At night, before drifting off, he lies on his back and scans the radio but all that comes out of his speakers is a tempestuous froth of jargon. After he falls into nightmare, owls sneak into his bedroom to watch him interact with his predecessors who never doubted him once for his aptitude and belligerence.