by C. Edward Anable
He lifted the drink with the swift, easy motion of a blacksmith; "Belly of the beast," he exhaled, pounding the empty shot glass onto the counter of the bar. I matched him, though with some effort. "That's Detroit steel you got parked out there, it'll get you where you need to go;" then he hollered for the bartender and said, "Two more for my son and me." The bartender poured whiskey from a bottle that was shaped like a potbelly stove. We drank in silence. His hand felt like hammered steel when I shook it for the last time and he watched me walk towards the car from the doorway; the gravel underfoot matched his voice when he yelled: Be safe, now.
C. Edward Anable does not like summertime. He crosses the hemispheres to avoid them. (Cambridge, England - Lima, Peru.) C. Edward Anable has recently published a short fiction piece in "Johnny America." C. Edward Anable does not vote, though he supports all candidates with equal aplomb.