My thoughts are confused, the world is pitch-black, voices from another room are an incoherent chatter.
She was a girl then. She’d gone to Carlito’s Traveling Show with her mother, a woman who died young. Glossy red with white stars, the box rested on a carpenter’s table. Carlito climbed in.
Steve shoved his hands into his pockets and stood at the crossing inhaling faint ethanol, human sweat and Thai takeout. Emotions raced through his mind forming axon networks that blurted dejection
Arriving like a crepe-soled creeper, Edgar tapped gently on the door and she, with a fake whiskey voice pretending to be Rochelle Simonette the french actress, would
Gas. You need it. So into the station you steer your ten year old car. It has bad tires and multiple internal problems. You inch up to the pump. Cut the engine. It shudders and dies. Open the door.