The bridge to the mall has gone out again—rusted girders pregnantly bending, groaning, and bursting—discharging plates of metal to the river below, where they drip rust like blood toward the ocean. Cars still insist on crossing the chasm—balancing metal wheels on strips of steel—holding sticks out of windows—creeping high-wire necromancy. A military of metallurgical scientists have set up checkpoints and choke points but are not fixing anything, just slowing cars down. Traffic is bad. At the mall, I go to my dentist’s office, but no one is there. I try to fix my teeth with his old tools that lay around unsterilized and disgusting as my desperation. I go to the food court, but the coffee is rancid and there is no appeal. I watch two men shoot each other, then discuss what have they done as blood pools around their feet. Red footprints follow them as they turn and march away from each other. I turn in a circle, but see no authority to report. An old dog I loved appears and tries to lead me home. She looks at me when we arrive, but her eyes are bulging ping-pong balls, pointed in different directions. I tenderly adjust them with my fingers to make them aligned again.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 2.
Jeff Vollmer graduated with a degree in English and creative writing from Middlebury College. He lives with his wife, three kids, two dogs, and cat in New York’s Hudson Valley.
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