contact

Ahead of me on the highway the sedan began losing its tire. The rubber wore away from use and the metal rim scraped against the asphalt. Orange and yellow sparks erupted from the contact. I pressed on the gas and moved around the car, wondering if they’d make the destination before they lost it.

No. 160

Facade

The scaffolding had fallen apart, either from the shoddy workmanship, or from the gusts of wind overnight. Walking past it the morning after the storm, it was unclear how long it had been in place. The wooden planks sat askew and looked weather-worn. The stone facade of the building had crumbled away, revealing the skeletal structure. The wooden staircase within, now exposed to the elements, began rotting. At street level the ceramic mailbox that always stood in greeting now lay crumbled in pieces.

No. 054