“Instructions for the Play-by-play” by S. Monett

Sean Monett is a self-taught illustrator from Knoxville, TN. He is the author of the novel Your Brain Has Fleas and the comic A Snail’s Path. His work has been featured in Meow Meow Pow Pow, Plum Tree Tavern, and Imaginary Gardens. He enjoys long walks in the void and spending time with his shadow-family. You can find him online- @nonsensepoetrycomics.

Instructions for the Play-by-Play

Insert a soaring description of my brain’s parabolic trajectory. Include details of the tremendous impact of the punting foot, which jiggles wrinkles and deletes a few of my least painful childhood memories. Provide an introspective and immersive account of the helpless lifting feeling, when time’s straight flow seems to knot back on itself.

Use the term “hang time” to unlock associations of both weightless levitation and, paradoxically, of noose-bound suicide. Move seamlessly into depicting the allegorically fraught sensation of descent. Treat with reverence the profound and purposeless spinning plummet that ensues.

Don’t omit the wooshing sounds of still air stirred into static wind, which ought to be so loud that I can’t hear myself think. Remember to mention the brain’s parachuting stretch effect. The lump of disembodied fatty tissue must distend and expand, becoming sort of flat and then narrowing again when velocity hits. Like a dart or a javelin diving dangerously downward: this is how my brain should be pictured.

Zoom out to observe the phantom pain of my empty skull, which knows that it has lost its precious payload. Dissect the hollow and emotionless suction that pulls the strings at the backs of my eyeballs as they follow my brain’s fall. Frame up the next shot with the goal posts. A speck of grey warps flappingly as it approaches the ground. Dropping fast, tearing through the space between loosely suspended molecules of oxygen and water vapor, my brain should appear avian. Examine the image of this featherless hunk of flab as it takes on the aspect of an attacking hawk. Consider, for as long as you need, the use of the words “sleek” and “streamlined”, and then reject them as inapplicable.

Set up the expectation of a swoop. Defiant of gravity, the brain must picture itself pivoting midair and missing the hard earth completely, continuing its seamless speed in a wide gyre. Dash the hopes of the doomed. Ruthlessly and graphically detail the splat and the violent dissolution. Contradict yourself repeatedly as you relate the dissonant experiences of each glob of shrapnel. The fragmentation must look painful and yet ring with a sweet relief. Free from context, bits of preconceived notion and repressed trauma will revel in the feeling of escape. The shattered bits of my brain must come to rest at the end of their arcs with a sense of satisfied completion.

The roar of the crowd should rise to fill the vacuum left by the woosh and the splat. Stomping feet should be focused on, along with clapping hands, whistling lips, and chugged beers. The raucous celebratory paroxysms of the fanatical bodies in the stands should not abate, but rather morph into a droning inconstant hum. This sound should be layered as a foundation for the bold and clear crackle of the announcer’s voice. The craggy and bitter old man’s voice should be perceived through the lens of one of my stale recollections, now splattered across several faces of those in the splash zone. With utter and unabashed certainty, the announcer must proclaim, “It is good.”

From the Editor:

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