“Do you think anyone is there?”
The hollow room echoed the flat words.
Outside, the sun leapt into the sky. Crystal traces of frost evaporated in the rising warmth, as dead leaves, soggy with melting dew dropped one by one to the ground.
Because the honesty I demand is too much. As it turns out, it’s not human.
He became addicted to the explosion that punctuated Steppenwolf’s “Earschplittenloudenboomer,” fantasizing that it heralded a select and deserved apocalypse for Lincoln City. Come the Soviet host’s sweep south from Tillamook, he would stand at the gates of this defunct Coney Island and hand his liberators the key. Then the tumbrels would roll. Thus, his letter to Brezhnev, alerting the Secretary of the Soviet Communist Party that there was one very pissed off queer boy in the hinterlands of Oregon who wanted to turn traitor and watch the motherfucker burn.
Standing in line Greanly Lacombe solved all of the conflicts on earth. He realized how to overcome our dependency on carbon based fuels. He even discovered time travel. Then the cashier interrupted his train of thought. “Excuse me, sir. You’re next.”
But by the time she was finished, he was gone.