Douglas Wood

“Clay steps inside his closet in search of a shirt that isn’t repulsive and discovers he’s left his body: a sensation neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but bewildering, definitely. Those hands, the fingers thin as paintbrushes, recognizably his, continue to sling hangers along the rail, but he observes the action from a close vantage, like the difference between the left and right eyes—that far away—an adjacent but distinct point of view. Dizzying, to watch yourself operate like normal, to function like someone in control when there’s no one in control and you can’t trust anything . . .”

in Narrative Magazine