“So it’s come to this,” I mutter as I dumpster dive into the recycle bin. I’m digging out any scrap of paper with enough white space that I can write on. Because this is a note to myself, I don’t need a pristine piece of paper. And
Author: Cheryl
Sitting at a sun-bleached table in an urban garden, notebooks and laptops spread between us, Caroline and I commiserate over recent chaos. Cars breaking down, reliable people flaking, confirmed gigs falling through . . . all for no discernible reason, except our own crazy-making. A scratching sound from
Dropping our bags, we free our feet from shoe prisons and survey the room. Beige walls, tan carpet, white sheets. Nice, nice, we say, patting the beds and looking for open outlets to charge our devices. We espy a small balcony through the slats of the window blinds and hope for a glimpse of the final rays of the day.
We swing open the back door, then fall back
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Rivers pour off me as if I’m in the shower, but my own pores fuel this particular deluge. My lungs strain to wring oxygen from murky air thick with sweat and smoke. My eyes squint to discern the faintest outline of my many companions. My folded limbs
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Today a well-meaning friend delivered news so heinous that I would have taken to my bed, had I not already been lying there, avoiding the day. The Alternet headline blasted:
Popular Beer and Wine Brands Contaminated
with Monsanto’s Weedkiller, Tests