Kissclysmia by Matthew Konkel

She kissed me like she was saving a drowning child. She kissed me like a new Pollack painting. She kissed me like the discovery of an extraterrestrial life form. Her kiss surrounded us in a protective bubble of time and space. It was warm and moist and tasted like a strawberry ocean mist. It was a Thursday and the world had decided to thunder and crumble without reserve. The florist was inexplicably mourning a loss of someone she’d never met. Police officers lost their ability to speak and were forced to communicate by abstract hand gestures. The hairdressers had gone bald in a radiation chewing gum debacle. Thousands of people afflicted with transient global amnesia kept returning to the stores to buy items they already had in their homes. A young girl watched the daylight swallow the dark; she felt pensive and dusk became her favorite time of day.

She kissed me on a bridge that was ready to collapse. Our skins were turning inside out and our hearts shuddered like the ground under galloping hooves of frightened antelope. The bridge had been scheduled for a complete restoration but instead they let it deteriorate year after year. Every week another piece of the bridge dislodged into the greedy waters below, displacing some of the drink with orphans of twisted metal. We kissed like naked beasts inside our shielding bubble. Outside, one dilapidating moment to the next, the world sank into both desert and arctic pit of oblivion.

She kissed me like the rising hope in a world retreated to madness. Streets turned to pudding and we kissed up spoons. Cities crumbled like a collective urban avalanche and we kissed up hospitals and federal emergency management. The planets began to break from our solar system and she kissed me with a new gravity. The wait at the DMV was longer than boundary changing wars and our kiss got everyone a ticket to the front of the line.

The bridge had all but completely dismantled. Her kiss kept us and the crossing vehicles suspended. A boy stuck his head out the window of a rusted convertible and looked at the nothing under the wheels. They spun in midair. He looked at her kissing me and saw his future and the future of generations to come. He saw an amusement park where the rollercoasters ran on free love and the grounds are crowded with snack trays of romantic ideal. She kissed me like Genesis. She kissed me like pristine memories. She kissed me like instant construction. She kissed me like a constant prosperous volcano. She kissed me like the world was doomed— but everyone was okay with that. She kissed me like the Beatles in nineteen sixty-four. She kissed me into the violent past and utopian future. She kissed me with the centrifugal force of a tornado, without guile, without consciousness or consequence. She kissed me like an epic novel…unabridged.

Matthew Konkel is a teaching-artist, playwright and independent filmmaker
from Milwaukee, WI. His latest film is titled Neptune and scheduled for
release in 2014. His fiction appears in the Newer York, Paragraph Planet,
Postcard Shorts, and The Eunoia Review. His play Walk, Don’t Walk was
recently published by Pennster Media.