Crash

by Steven Wolfe

He was speeding across the flat brown land, tapping his bare foot on the dash in time to imaginary music. A pickup truck emerged in the distance; suddenly the rear end wobbled and the truck flipped and rolled into a cloud of dust. He got his boots on and walked to the upside-down truck as a woman dropped onto her head inside the cab, squirmed out of the open window and staggered to her feet. Her tank top was riding down her shoulder, exposing a swollen breast leaking white fluid out of the brown nipple. Wait, just wait here a minute, he said, and walked back to the overturned truck, scanning the ground: broken glass – some bird bones, a softball, rusted beer can, half a chocolate bar in the wrapper – no, not a softball, a doll’s head, covered with dirt. Its eyes were open.

6S

Steven Wolfe lives in Houston, Texas. His work has appeared recently in Exquisite Corpse, Southeast Review, Opium, NANOfiction, the Chattahoochee Review, and elsewhere.