The odd angle of my left wrist elicited a visual shock. People are constructed a certain way and my wrist, well … definitely outside the parameters of normalcy. Also, looking at the man who caused it through curved Plexiglas is a bit disconcerting. I say man, but the kid is likely younger than my son. When the faceplate clears intermittently between his angry gasps, a dusting of acne is visible across his forehead and cheeks. A large angry fistula sits off center on the jutting chin. Nothing but the face is human. The vinyl night stick across my throat, the weight of the Kevlar vest gives him a plasticine sheen like a toy box superhero gone rogue. Even the shin guards pinning my shoulders to the pavement feel brittle and cold. I want him to see the wrist. I can’t speak but maybe, just maybe, if he saw the twisted angle of hand flapping about at the end of my arm he might let me catch my breath.

Tony Burnett is located in the ether-net between vengeance and apology. Using a rather archaic form of magical realism this entity conveys often complex ideas and emotions using only 26 characters and a few dozen symbols. Since Avery both does and does not exists in human form, similar to Schrodinger’s cat, previous publication credits seem irrelevant.