When they come for me, I only have a few seconds.

The night manager rings me from the front desk, “Policía secreta.”

I drop the phone back in the cradle. My blood is suddenly white hot. I grab all of my papers and writings. I leap across the little hotel room and rip the grate away from the hearth. I always have a fire going. Che Guevara did this. I toss them in. There is a sick, awful, and brutal freedom in being able to do this. The freedom of an animal that chews its leg free of a bear trap. The freedom that comes with forever missing some integral portion of myself.

The papers go up in a brilliant white flame. I write only on flash paper. Trotsky did this.

I hear the fast footfalls in the hall.

I look around. The room has one window, seven stories up. The rest of the room is unhelpful. On the desk: my pen and my little dictionary. Not even I rebel against spelling.

I open the book – I hear the molecules of air in the hall being displaced as they swing the battering ram – I leap inside. Distantly I hear the door crack in half.

I land hard on ornate black text. It smells wonderful, old and dusty.

I look around. A desert spreads out around my oasis of typeset. I see a man. I rush to him. His face is dark and shriveled like the skin of the date he eats.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Enkidu,” he answers, already bored with me.

“Enkidu? Gilgamesh's buddy?”


“Which way outta here?”

He points limply.


I climb out and balance myself on enkindle. I leap to enlarge. I hop across enlist, I dash past an enneahedron.

I can see them in the distance behind me, rushing over enlightenment. While I am looking back I trip and fall. I land on my face in ennui and I start to wonder, what's really the point?

They have caught up to me and they have their pistols out but they don't feel the desire to use them. They shrug at me.

But I have a flash of my papers flashing to cinders and it makes me angry. I kick one of them in the knee, “Why!” He shouts.

I climb out and onto ennuyant. I feel bold. I run. I'm en route. Words blow past. There's enuresis. There goes ephemeral. I leap Ethiopia in a single bound. I am moving faster than a Eurasian Lynx.

I can see my destination distantly, just beyond existentialism.

There is a gun shot behind me. The bullet zips past and hits Evelyn, John an English diarist who died in 1706. I duck behind Exeter, a town in central California. I catch my breath. I look to my target. It is a long sprint from me to exit.

I exhale and then I'm off! Careful to sidestep exhaustion, I'm through exhilaration, across exigency, and then I'm there. I run up the side of existential quantifier and throw myself into exit.

And I tumble out through the back door of the hotel kitchen and into the alley. Bags of wet trash break my fall. I stand up and brush myself off. I jog out to the street and force myself to walk slowly, they might notice me if I run.


words: James Bezerra, California (standard kink)
image: Blogistin, Germany (blogistin)

another escape: Swoosh


BluePrintReview - issue 20 - The Missing Part