28 i) When morning comes to the city

When morning comes to the city, a pale blue sky stretches beyond the buildings that seem to rise into the clouds. The streets are busy, with people hurrying about. Those few who take notice of our bedraggled gang give them a wide berth. One surly fellow with a glaring bald patch screws up his nose as he passes, and in a grunting voice, says, “You stink.” He departs, shaking his head.

“Yeah, but stink like what?” Fassn asks.

25 iii) The city’s composed of towers

The city’s composed of towers, great rising spires of grey, blue, and brown. The sun glares off their bulky edifices as the gang cranes their necks to take in the buildings’ soaring tops.

“They’ve built stone houses like mountains,” Shyan says, her jaw agape.

“I don’t wanna sleep in the woods anymore,” Fassn says.

“I bet they have an inn down there,” Shyan says. “An inn like none you’ve seen, with ceilings you couldn’t jump to reach.”

The glowing sphere bounces impatiently.

“Yes, yes,” Cang says. “We shall sell you in good time.” At this the sphere bobs away from Cang and circles behind Fassn, as though it were cowering.

“Ah, c’mon Cang, we can’t sell the little guy,” says Fassn. “Those jewels, on the other hand,” he says, and smacks his lips.

every weekday

Every weekday, construction workers scurry over the skeletal building, like silent film stars viewed in the modern era. Bangs and crashes and great KAPOWs echo across the paved landscape, til the exhausting roar of a city bus, thick with human figures, obscures them.
When Saturday rolls around, only tarps flapping in the breeze move. The busses’ roars obscures that, too.

Uber Eats: a story cricle

Uber Eats: a story circle

So this Uber Eats guy is like four-foot-eight, hauling this giant bag like an army engineer, and he’s pumping his giant bike through the streets of St. James Town. He’s trying to find some building, 645, which doesn’t exist since the numbers fell off. He’s spinning ’round and ’round this complex seein’ every permutation of numbers ‘cept the one he needs until an old guy in a grey-and-white suit points our man where he needs to be.

At long last he punches the numbers on the intercom, and though he’s struggling with the weight of the box – he’s got this fragile frame, right – he gets this tiny rush when the people buzz him up.

But now the lift jolts to a stop with him inside it and he’s wondering if he’s gettin’ off on the right floor, ’cause the doors just sort of pop open, no chime or nothing, and the floor isn’t lined up right, so he’s gotta step down like six inches.

And get this, none of the doors there have numbers – none of ’em, no numbers on the doors – I’m serious – it’s like what the fuck is that? So he’s straining with this goddamn box and knockin’ on every door and everybody’s like “nope not me sorry” and so finally he just cycles home and eats the meal himself.


Logan Bright