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.


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