Blue York Spork by John Oliver Hodges

I spork. When I eat, the spork is my tool. The spork will cradle broth, allow you to slurp while mouthing corn and other tasty morsels. I do not eat pork. My camera is a spork. It stabs, but not too deep, and allows for something precious to be held, as it would be in your two cupped hands—don’t drop it! If I was a thousand feet tall, and ate people, my spork would be quite large. I would reach it down into the city and scoop people up, just like I scoop them up with my cameras, removing them from the face of the earth.


			John Oliver Hodges
			Blue York Spork
			I spork. When I eat, the spork is my tool. The spork will cradle broth, allow you to slurp while mouthing corn and other tasty morsels. I do not eat pork. My camera is a spork. It stabs, but not too deep, and allows for something precious to be held, as it would be in your two cupped hands—don’t drop it! If I was a thousand feet tall, and ate people, my spork would be quite large. I would reach it down into the city and scoop people up, just like I scoop them up with my cameras, removing them from the face of the earth.

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			John Oliver Hodges lives in Flushing. His photographic sequences have appeared in American Short Fiction, Iron Horse Literary Review, Hamburger Eyes, The Yalobusha Review, Redivider, and Contact Sheet.
			© John Oliver Hodges All Rights Reserved