Sound of Shapes

Motel room, 3am, every channel clocked off. Just static, the polychrome hiss of the universe ignoring itself.

Then the snow clears. A face⁠—his own face, but older, liver-spotted, eyes like something left out too long. The mouth moves. One sentence, said twice, three times. He leans in, but the sound is gone, hiss replaced by a hum, neither bearing words.

Snow again.

He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, the one missing spots where the silver’s worn through. He watches his mouth. He tries shapes.

By dawn, he’s still there, lips moving, asking the glass what he said.

J.M.C. Kane is a writer and environmental attorney in New Orleans who specializes in very short works because it gives him fewer opportunities to wander off-topic.