top of page


a triptych

after Bob Heman

[molecule dew]

Sea glass balcony dancing. The string it keeps is tall. The echo eventful. The echo happens every time. We record this song and we cry. We record this song to play later but it is not the same. Swirling drum circles. Maverick jazz. Witness the discipline. Testimonial connection. The slippers elk leather, untethered. As the sound is repeated, the atlas of the past rebuilds.

[molecule dew]

Add music. Loop the music. The tuba is tuning. The oboe is broken. Again, the tap is turned on. Hopeful, golden, alone. Secondary caretakers. Additional police. The mimic of the minute. Take a minute. The minute mimics the minute. The minute mimics the mist. A minute simulator. A minute. A mist. Some stories must end with the rest left untold.

[molecule dew]

The therapist was inside of his chair. A folktale on a liter of milk. When the children turned into piano keys, their parents bought grapes and again used wages. Gasoline and melted snow atop a towel. His crew, he knew, was stuck to the ground.


Benjamin Niespodziany is a Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction nominee. He has had his work in Fence, Hobart, Wigleaf, Peach Mag, and various others. He works nights in a library in Chicago.


bottom of page