by Rachel Reeves
Sweat soaks the man’s shirt, breaking his pale skin into tomato blotches. He scrabbles in the crossing, nails cracking in the sun. The box was here; the whispered stories had to be true.
“Searching for salvation, stranger?”
The scrabbling man stops and smooths his shirt, every bit the contrite child.
“Salvation? Naw, I passed salvation a while ago.”
“I can see that, stranger. You are stealing from my stoop, after all.”
Stealing? He’s never—
He’s bitten through his tongue, tasting rust and dripping red.
The Other never loses His smile as the man drops and the dust drinks.
Rachel Reeves lives in Shanghai, China. As an aspiring practitioner, she once had a tarot deck fall out of a window. Nonetheless she doggedly goes on, even if just to spite the universe. She is also a disability activist, book reviewer, and tea lover.
Find her work and her book reviews at: rachelmrereeves.