Sean Kilpatrick

Pharaoh ants rambled over the monitor, cajoled by photonic documentation. The secretary blipped them with Kleenex, but they had invaded an interior panel, resolution matrixed inviolable, each candela perambulating itself. She killed one with the flat of her nail, riveting the insect to its own liminal image. “I’m watching my program,” the bastard, her boss, lied, enticed by this quandary. “Epizootic ooze trending for the feed,” I opined. “I’m afraid I’ve missed,” the bastard began to lie, “your meaning,” he finished lying.