Mira Corpora by Jeff Jackson Read Free Book Online

fingers are quivering.
    â€œYou’re getting it wet,” she says.
    I crush the paper into a wad and toss it on the ground. With the toe of my shoe, I stamp on it and rub it apart. The soggy
sheet breaks into smaller and smaller pieces, until there’s nothing but hundreds of dirty white flecks that resemble the rubbery shavings of an eraser.
    A small audience of onlookers has gathered on the edges of the road. They stand with eyes averted, as if they’ve just witnessed some tragic event and are trying to downplay its importance. More people leave the abandoned houses and venture into the rainy street in twos and threes, covering their heads with bags and old newspapers. I figure they’re coming to offer advice or consolation about the blank page, but they push past me and flock toward the oracles’ porch. They all begin to file inside.
    â€œTime for the nightly concert,” the skinhead girl says. “Maybe you can talk to Sara after the show.” She grabs me by the wrist and leads me toward the entrance.
    Everyone has assembled in the living room, huddling on sagging couches, squatting on scratchy wool blankets, standing with backs hugging the plaster walls. A sickly sweet jasmine incense fills the air and masks the stench of stale sweat. A semi-circle of candles provides the light. The melted wax marks off the stage area, spreading like tree roots across the warped floorboards.
    I sit on a coffee-stained sofa, balanced on wobbly box springs that threaten to uncoil. It feels like I’m getting sicker by the minute, alternating between face-reddening fever and teeth-chattering chills. Maybe I really am dying. People’s gazes circle back to me with vulturous curiosity.
    The room hushes. Three pairs of white athletic socks appear through the slats of the staircase, then the oracles swish their nightgowns and make a full-bodied entrance. They assume their place at the center of the candlelit circle. The two assistants throw their arms open and announce: “We are The Chorines!”
    Muted whoops, muffled applause, a stray whistle.
    This time the oracles don’t seem so imposing. The nylon threads of their pink nightgowns shine from constant wear. Their cuticles are stained ochre from smoking hand-rolled
cigarettes. They pick the gum from their teeth. They unfold the tops of their socks and scratch the inflamed insect bites on their calves. They let the silence of the room deepen.
    Then The Chorines shut their eyes, clear their throats, and start to sing. Their throats vibrate together in a simple wordless tune. The voices circle one another according to an undetectable logic until they settle on a single resonant note. The sound builds to an immersive drone. The walls of the room begin to vibrate. It defies understanding how such a huge noise can radiate from the bodies of these three girls.
    The audience seems to know what to do. They begin to join the song, fixing their voices to the choir, one person at a time. They start in the far corner and work their way around the room. Soon it feels like I’m in the middle of a hive. With each new voice, the delirious hum grows more intense.
    Despite myself, I get goose bumps. Tears streak my cheeks. The buzzing inside my chest is perfectly attuned to the vibration of the music. Maybe this song is a sort of funereal requiem. Maybe it’s meant for me. Sara stares purposefully in my direction. An emotional current surges between us that’s understood only by the raised hairs on the back of my neck.
    I begin to tremble. My breathing becomes shallow. I part my lips to join the chorus but no sound comes out. I’m choking. My throat gags. My arms and legs convulse. My body pitches itself onto the floor. The voices slowly break apart and a gallery of curious faces hovers overhead, their overlapping shadows smothering me like a blanket. Only Sara continues to sing, that one blissfully sustained note held by her open