by Kevin Acers

The stern-looking physician and his comely assistant are staring with awkward intensity at my scrotum. I am unaccustomed to this kind of attention. I, however, seem to have disappeared except for that carefully shaved body part. They gingerly inventory its interior ropes and pulleys. I silently praise the chemists responsible for local anesthesia while these surgeons slice their tiny targets. They mumble together while cauterizing the freshly severed vas deferens, wispy threads of smoke rising as if from a miniature train.
“Wooooo, woooooooooooo!” I quietly sing. I don’t care what they think. I provide my own sound effects.

Copyright 2023 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.