Trinidad checks her crumpled shopping list. She’s just picked up the bouquet of flowers. That’s everything. The drive home is quick despite intermittent traffic. Trinidad slips through the front door with grocery bags hooked over her arms, especially careful with the bouquet. Streeter hunches over a worn cardboard box in the living room, wrestling with a cluster of wires inside. “Tachyon” is scribbled on the box’s side in black.
Published At Across The Margin
The incisions running up my arms pulse in pained protest. The red rice-sack bandana tight around my forehead helps me ignore the tingling and focus on the task at hand. I must be alert. Never know what’s out here. In the distance, the highway trickle of cars spews smog into the morning air. The graveyard’s a shortcut to the barrio, the place of pillage for anything useful.
Published at Cultured Vultures
Anselm wakes to the bustling sounds of commotion downstairs, recognizing the unruly racket of his brother and several of his friends. The winter weeks can be grueling in the Upper Depths, and tonight it’s Friday, time for them to kick back and enjoy themselves.
Published at Across the Margin