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• The Grip

  Big Bro’s sclera stung as he parted an eyelid to magnified light bursting from an eighty eight Durango’s front windshield. The closed eyes projected harshly bright red lit "floaters,” what Big Bro called strands of protein making up soft 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 noon and every car on the block blessed with a dark paint job had to be hot enough to fry an egg and cook a steak on the hood. He felt like a cupcake coming to rise in an easy bake and everything inside the dark blue sedan was on low broil. Big Bro contemplated spending another hour parked then they would have to leave and find some form of shade.