Flash fiction by Kyle Krueger
Creek Pharmacy
After dark, mullein candles ignite - crickets, fireflies - the invisibles wave the match just past the residue of agricultural chemicals. Bits of steel pipe, cover the only place thistle won't show its face. I've buried countless pieces of the soul’s jewelry there. In return, talking sticks unearthed. A familiar pattern, giving and taking: we are creekside. Bound to the microbial forms, tethered to the thorns. There are bold blinding days of Sun where St John's Wort plays. The beetles of black and red orgy among the milkweed; their spots lay portals to the lunar calendar. The drip drop of clays - the swamp begins to call.
Blackcaps, elder, witches broom: I call you by the name you gave in the night. When I step inside this circle, the entity of the creek allows sun to fade, the groundlayer breaks open into a sonic landscape of Wisconsin nocturnal chorus. Blue violet, bladder fern, goldenrod, marsh marigold, wild ginger, bee balm, jewelweed, blue cohosh. In isolation the heaviest singers leave a trail of keys for me to follow: A network is available and the brain shuts down, oozes minerals and enzymes to allow the chest to burst forward. I see burdock through the map of the seed. Another grid appears, skunk cabbage.
Upon tasting pollen, I see acres of the purple peeking, inviting all insects by the light of the moon to take humor and gather strength. To the right is the tunnel of milkweed. The white liquid runs down the fingers, soaks the bone and cells remember. It all begins to worship the patterns of monarchs wings and thus the wings of everything before and after. The crows sing from the polypore village, their beaks hold my past, exotic seeds, Saturdays in black for Saturn, passing through the digestive tract of my own fate now planted. From the stems of horsetail, my father and I brush our teeth, sprout songs and heal. Nearing the bridge, the trout hide deep in the seeps and springs merging with the river. My father and I the untapped springs now merging together with the river after years of sorrow from the cultures of the damned.
Heart beats steady, toes sink in and expand, it contracts like a swampy fever dream. The body drops and the crows sing me the final song. Oven bird, scarlet tanager, and eastern wood peewee watch it unfold, a backup choir. The trapeze act of the trio: artists conk, amadou and turkey tail entice the galaxy of bird songs and catch the underbelly's golden drops, dominated by white cedar. Thorns dig deep into me, spilling into the Pisces full moon. Ghost pipe removes the compass, the white to purple, leading us past the human bridge. Timothy grass follows us, Queen Anne's Lace too, for they are the trails themselves.
Bark changing color, smoke changing hour, in blue thickness from milky tower. Tears shedding leaves, years pouring steam, glass turns sour. Trust is found, in the returning of skunk cabbage, all hearts abound.
After dark, mullein candles ignite - crickets, fireflies - the invisibles wave the match just past the residue of agricultural chemicals. Bits of steel pipe, cover the only place thistle won't show its face. I've buried countless pieces of the soul’s jewelry there. In return, talking sticks unearthed. A familiar pattern, giving and taking: we are creekside. Bound to the microbial forms, tethered to the thorns. There are bold blinding days of Sun where St John's Wort plays. The beetles of black and red orgy among the milkweed; their spots lay portals to the lunar calendar. The drip drop of clays - the swamp begins to call.
Blackcaps, elder, witches broom: I call you by the name you gave in the night. When I step inside this circle, the entity of the creek allows sun to fade, the groundlayer breaks open into a sonic landscape of Wisconsin nocturnal chorus. Blue violet, bladder fern, goldenrod, marsh marigold, wild ginger, bee balm, jewelweed, blue cohosh. In isolation the heaviest singers leave a trail of keys for me to follow: A network is available and the brain shuts down, oozes minerals and enzymes to allow the chest to burst forward. I see burdock through the map of the seed. Another grid appears, skunk cabbage.
Upon tasting pollen, I see acres of the purple peeking, inviting all insects by the light of the moon to take humor and gather strength. To the right is the tunnel of milkweed. The white liquid runs down the fingers, soaks the bone and cells remember. It all begins to worship the patterns of monarchs wings and thus the wings of everything before and after. The crows sing from the polypore village, their beaks hold my past, exotic seeds, Saturdays in black for Saturn, passing through the digestive tract of my own fate now planted. From the stems of horsetail, my father and I brush our teeth, sprout songs and heal. Nearing the bridge, the trout hide deep in the seeps and springs merging with the river. My father and I the untapped springs now merging together with the river after years of sorrow from the cultures of the damned.
Heart beats steady, toes sink in and expand, it contracts like a swampy fever dream. The body drops and the crows sing me the final song. Oven bird, scarlet tanager, and eastern wood peewee watch it unfold, a backup choir. The trapeze act of the trio: artists conk, amadou and turkey tail entice the galaxy of bird songs and catch the underbelly's golden drops, dominated by white cedar. Thorns dig deep into me, spilling into the Pisces full moon. Ghost pipe removes the compass, the white to purple, leading us past the human bridge. Timothy grass follows us, Queen Anne's Lace too, for they are the trails themselves.
Bark changing color, smoke changing hour, in blue thickness from milky tower. Tears shedding leaves, years pouring steam, glass turns sour. Trust is found, in the returning of skunk cabbage, all hearts abound.
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Kyle Krueger is a forklift driver, an amateur comedian, and a devotee of skunk cabbage. He spends his time worshipping invasive plants, and working with humans who have traumatic experiences. In all seasons, he enjoys finding local plants that supply generous phytochemicals to counter the antibiotic resistance that awaits us. He can be found parodying 1960's rock songs in used bookstores, and at Nichols Creek singing into stones waiting for the messages to wash over his own shores.
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