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Fiction
Domisylum
Correspondence
Tonight I was at the laundromat because our washing machine died and we’re putting off buying a new one. It’s been ten years since I’ve done laundry with strangers. I took along my quarters and fabric softener — and my copy of The Sun. Standing next to the washers, I read “Domisylum,” by Brian Buckbee [August 2004], and it induced a peculiar kind of euphoria. I smiled, laughed, and wanted to read it aloud to my fellow washer persons, but who could have heard me above the din of whirring dryers?
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August 2004
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