from GLARE by Rachel Knight

One perfect glowing filament burns on and off in a yellow glass bulb. A fine strand of pure light, curled into an open circle. This shape brands itself into the surface of his eye, the scar burning greenly in the darkness behind his eyelids, shifting gradually into blue, orange, violet, pink. The curl and its halo regenerate themselves, repeating the color sequence, with every blink of his eye. The lightbulb blinks back, flashing on and off, on and off, outpacing his eyelids, obliterating the surface of his vision with infinite repetitions of its shape.

Tito is used to working under these conditions, and goes about his duty of replacing burned-out bulbs in the flashing marquee of the Golden Nugget, relying on the peripheral muscle of his vision. He unscrews the last dead bulb, dropping it gently into a plastic bag, which hangs like a sac of eggs from his belt. Now he removes one more bulb, this one still working. This one he slips into his shirt pocket. He fills the empty socket with a slightly paler yellow bulb drawn from another pocket. He leans back to survey the whole surface of the giant signboard, gripping the top rung of his ladder. He closes his eyes. The afterimages climax into a limitless glare that floods his vision beyond its periphery. He opens his eyes blindly, aiming them down and away from the board, waiting for his vision to be restored so that he can descend the ladder safely . . . .

from IN MEMORIAM, MRS. FIGG by Ross Klavan

Never, never, never, neeevvver - don't ever! - go to a cheap funeral. Not if you can find any way to get out of it.

Tell them you're ill, you're sorry, you're out of town. Tell them anything! Just don't force your innocent eyes to witness a Going-Out-of-Business Goodbye.

Also - if you're planning to die and be buried yourself, have the money to do it right because I'll tell you, when they put you in the ground on the cheapy-cheap they might as well just sweep you under the carpet. With a laugh track going. Or one of those cartoon comedy muted horns: Wha-wha-wha-whaaaaaaa . . . .

from THE MIRROR BALL by Parker Cross

My voice is carved in, dug through
There is a hollow space

between me and the voice. I forget the
buoyancy of unspoken because I am

sleepy and I sleep for the silence
of sleep and when I come home

and fall asleep, I'll wake up and it
will feel as if I may have been sleeping

when someone else has died . . .