Chinonye Omeirondi

The donkey is missing its tail. It wails and whines in quick intervals, like it can’t get enough fear out at once, and someone behind you giggles, says the donkey sounds like party horns. You’re sweating through your late father’s tux and you wish you could take it off and tie it around the donkey’s mouth — that thing is too damn loud. 

Stomach flips and turns; you ate too much cake. You don’t even like carrot cake, you only chewed and smiled because everyone else was chewing and smiling. You were staring at a woman with frosting on her lips, staring at her face, staring at everyone’s laughing, smiling faces, when you quickly realized you were eating amongst strangers. You don’t remember how you got here, but now the world is pitch black and your head is spinning. You want to strangle the screaming donkey. You’re stepping towards it now, and the strangers behind you sing a mixture of cries and shrieking cheers so loud your ears drip pizza sauce. Hands outstretched, you walk until your conscious tells you to STOP. You know you are beside the crying donkey, you know you have its tail. Angels, strangers sing. Steel nail in your hand, you pin the tail on the donkey and it screams.