Editor's Note: Cami Park passed away in December 2010. To honor her memory, we are reprinting a story published recently, in Vol. 4.3. Read her full list of publications here. Rest in peace, Cami.
When You Heard You were in the kitchen, reaching to the highest shelf, for the last can of chili beans needed for tonight's supper. On your toes, the very edge of the shelf barely out of reach. You knew there were cans back there, of beans and other things, just out of sight. On the television in the living room you heard a commercial for one of those grabbing things with a handle and thought, Oh, that's ironic, then immediately corrected yourself. No, that's a coincidence. Resolved to use the brains God gave you, you employed a package of spaghetti to extend your reach and blindly, haltingly, nudged several cans to the front of the shelf. You leaned back then, to examine what had been brought forth. There, among beets and stewed tomatoes, were the necessary beans, so far forward that you glimpsed, over the precipice, a sliver of tin moon underside. Meaning to separate it from the others, you prodded the can with the spaghetti; perhaps you misjudged the distance, or the force needed. Just as the television switched from commercials to breaking news you stood back, covered your eyes with your free arm, and let the cans fall all around you.
Cami Park writes when she can, and sometimes, even when she can't. The results can be found in places like Quick Fiction, Smokelong Quarterly, Hobart, Everyday Genius, Abjective, NOÖ Journal, Wigleaf, and elimae. She is included in Dzanc's Best of the Web 2010, and was a semi-finalist for the Rosemetal Press 4th Annual Chapbook Contest, as well as a finalist for the Flatmancrooked 1st Annual Poetry Prize.
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