They were swapping out the streetlights. Strange the way they went about it. Not all at once, not block by block. More like a lottery. Whichever ones needed replacing, I guess. I didn’t even notice the change until he told me.
He said it wouldn’t be long until people forgot the way the sodium lights used to paint the street a warm yellow-orange. It made you remember there was a fire somewhere inside you.
My father once told me about a darts team he had been on. In addition to himself, there had been a social worker, two teachers and a printer. I pictured my own associates, the modern team: internet poker player, freelance copywriter, cover supervisor. Work is stupid. Beside me in the passenger seat right now is my girlfriend Aimee who I am dropping off at a job interview for a position as birthday rememberer at a company so large that this would be a full-time job,
Nick Earhart’s Four Places, published by Lillet Press, is ostensibly a ‘comic.’ It is a deceptively simple work. Each comic vignette is comprised of four discrete boxes, or “places” as the title states. We enter into the work unsuspecting. As with all cultural productions, we expect narrative, or at the very least a robust use of symbol and metaphor. Earhart disabuses us of this notion. We come to realize that there can be no narrative herein,
I read the report before the Foundation removed it from all access sites.
I know which rumors are true and which ones are false.
At least I think I do. It feels sometimes as if the report infected me, injected me with the vermillion fog it describes earth as breathing out certain days.
Alexandria says she feels it too. This fog. And she, too,