The Grip

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera stung after parting the right eye to magnified light vibrantly bursting from the Durango’s windshield. His closed eyes projected harshly bright red lit "floaters,” what Big Bro called strands of protein making up pupil tissue. He twists vascular arms causing them to excrete tiny beads that slowly grow then fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. He felt like everything inside the dark blue sedan was coming to rise in like cup cakes in an easy bake oven. The idea spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his faces as if he was wind of a large bon fire.