Hazel woke to the sound of the van idling in the driveway next door. The throb of the engine vibrated the meat of her insides. She waited for the hard slide and crash of the vehicle’s doors. Once, twice. Then again.
Eight boys sit spread in the glow of the late sun, a declining sky casting shadows over the shattered glass, snuffed cigarettes and street art murals that have become the backdrop of their tweenage lives.
I was born with a few drops of euphoria, not the whole bucket. That makes me lucky, although not lucky enough to escape loving drunk when younger. Drunk both amped up the euphoria and solved (temporarily) some of the problems of living.
Will stands in the concrete pit surrounded by cows and machinery. He has been here since long before dawn, eye level with eight hundred udders, swelled and pink turned to baggy folds of skin. Outside, warm hides press inside a ring of rails.
My husband’s fingers rapidly prod at the PlayStation controller behind me and he growls at the TV like a bear. He’s lost the fish he’s been trying to reel in for the last 10 minutes. Bummer, I say to him.