Issue Ten (Aug 2009)
Pepper got us ejected from the hotel, a vast porcelain dome of a site with fungal art phosphorescing on the lobby walls. He staged a tantrum, batting bags out of the porters’ straining arms, clattering equipment across the oily wood of the floor; adopting a magnificently aggressive stance, up on his hinds, baring those teeth, famous from an interminable array of snarling ads. And here it came: the full-strength, lungs at capacity howl!
This story has been removed at the request of the author, and an updated version appears in Issue 43 (July 2014).
An apple tree. A little girl standing beside it.
The apples are small and bitter, like old men; they are wizened and sour.
I park the Saab behind Dan’s pickup to find that winter has taken advantage of his absence. It has thrown itself in steep banks against the windward side of his vehicle; frosted his windows and layered the tailgate with ice. Snow hides all but a few of the bumper stickers he’s plastered across the back of the vehicle. “Custer was Sioux’d” and “Indians discovered Columbus” and “Caught you whitehanded”. A tangle of feathers hangs from the rearview mirror.
The ground swallowed the car. One minute it was there, the next, plop. Gone. It caused a commotion. An ambulance, cops and a bunch of onlookers gathered to mutter near the accident site. Leonardo banged his palm against his horn.