Fiction

In the Cradle of Deplorables – M.Leland Oroquieta

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In the Cradle of Deplorables

WE HEAR THE MANTRAS and litanies all the time that we belong in the dustbin of deplorables, driven on pitch that throttles interstates into lamentations of fuck-yous to the universe. Their signs welcome us like the innocent sound of mandolins, reminding our young bodies that we live in a world of directions and possibilities.

Our mantra is art for cities, sprayed on the faces of walls, alleys, or doorsteps, trapped in the rhetoric of displacement and disorientation. We forge bold, crooked lines over glamour splashed on billboard signs, or crucify four-letter words and ideas on bridges to nowhere, bridges that won’t take us away from being dregs of civilization, of some notion’s law and jurisdiction.

Perhaps, in the end, we prefer religions without symbolisms, the kind we simulate with our hands, and fingers, forever mystified on the human-form of youth transformed to silhouettes amidst the temper of breezes inviting us to ignore the moon, or any artifice of light that shines an arrogance it is the source of whatever we need, in order to see through labyrinths festering in our hearts.


M. Leland Oroquieta has been a library page, draftsman, cashier, stray cat, and other things he can’t remember, while reading for a humanities course at university. He lives on the edge of a valley, near an ocean.  His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cricket Online Review, Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Local Nomad: An Online Journal of Writing & Art, Origins Journal and Queen Mob’s Tea House (Misfit Docs).


 

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