by Derrick Della Giorgia
The panting of the train came from overhead. F searched below the basil plants, far down between the parked cars, beyond the buildings; it still came from up high. Was the train sailing into the clouds and cleaving the candied sky? Its coughing - the iron it was spitting - kept falling down on him, all around him. He went inside and watched the balcony to see if anything changed. Another ridiculous thing was that he had to vocalize a high-pitch moan, or sink into his body.
Derrick Della Giorgia was born in Italy and currently lives between Manhattan and Rome. His short stories have been published in several anthologies. You can visit him here.