After I died I watched my invention rolling on through generations and centuries—ever larger, ever faster, more numerous, powered at last by the burning of Earth’s darkest fuels until the air itself changed and the suffocating world headed towards another night.
I would uninvent the wheel, if I could.
Fiona M Jones wrote this story.
Nick’s hometown is missing. Where are silent evening streets, where he cruised in his Subaru and listened to oldies?
Cars roar, faces consumed by exhaust.
Where are the small shops, sizzling with pizza and cigarettes? Easily walkable blocks?
Skyscrapers rise, proud monsters.
Nick wanders, denying, not ready to bury home.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, and Ariel Chart, among others.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?