Ev Datsyk

“Kintsugi” by Ev Datsyk

Submitted to Contest #255

Trigger warnings: Loss and dementia I got an email this week about submitting to a short story contest. The theme is The Five Stages. What stage am I in, spending my first Father’s Day thinking about the father I have in pieces? Is it selfish to say, “I want more of you”? Is it ungrateful to say, “There just isn’t enough”? I miss the whole. The parts that are left are too small, and the parts I remember are things I want to forget. They’re under my skin like shards of glass, and I need them to rub down into sand alright already, Jesus C...

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“The Blighted Eye” by Ev Datsyk

Submitted to Contest #245

It is a well-known fact that, when the night pins atop the day, lunacy rises. Youth play pranks under the veil of darkness (inevitable: preying on the shard of bone that sits in the Grand Hall, dipping it in glitter before returning the rib to its pedestal; possible: going for the city’s jugular, taking the scrolls of the Lost Years and writing DICK in the margins). Beggars and thieves will steal across the iced-over canals, clamber into the shallow boats caught in the white-blue freeze, and reap their drawers of prizes. Cloaked creatures sl...

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“Out of Body” by Ev Datsyk

Mikey captures, in 45.7 megapixels, the moment Andy exits her body. There is something in her, then a fizzle of electricity, and then nothing. Legs, yes. A head, shoulders, and beating heart, yes. But in her eyes, vacancy. ------------ To Andy, she is— featherlight amongst the trees, tickled by points of rich green pine. The air is fragrant with spring-melt: snow-soaked dirt, thawing riparian loam, a wet river smell. As she drifts, she finds an enormous calm. The wind is a long exhale. She is a gold mote of dust in a sigh. Untethered and awa...

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“God-Bald” by Ev Datsyk

Submitted to Contest #243

He remembered the day God found him and the way God found him. Under a storm-bruised sky, he was standing in uniform, shuffling after the mourners. Their voices beat back the thunder as they rose in funerary song (O, Roc, Of The Blackest Cap). The Proclaimer of Grief, a boy not yet twelve, stood with the solemnity of his elders and clashed a pair of cymbals at the door. The God-found man did not sing. It was not very becoming of him, but he just moved his lips. He had always been self-conscious of his voice. Should he, at least, ha...

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“Beware Paris” by Ev Datsyk

Submitted to Contest #242

Beware brides upon the Seine, perfumed with river water, whose veils catch the wind like white flags of surrender. They will trip along the cobbles with their arms full of roses, and the petals will find you with all the softness of forever. The brides alone feel the thorns.Beware the Latin Quarter with its songbirds and bistro tables within kissing distance. Do not be tempted here to make a beautiful acquaintance, not over a bottle of wine, not over a shot of espresso, not even over a love song.Beware the dreamers of Montmartre who create e...

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“Morbid Holidays” by Ev Datsyk

Submitted to Contest #241

Content warning: Implied murder, dismemberment, and misogyny.My family celebrates morbid holidays. We gather on dead men’s birthdays and gruesome anniversaries. If I am ever caught, I hope a trial of public opinion shames them. I hope they say I am the way I am because I was forced to attend a brunch commemorating Auntie Tanya’s skiing accident. Because we fought about the turkey on the day Joseph was diagnosed. Because I had to remember someone it hurts to remember.So many deathday flowers will ruin you. Today is the third anniver...

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