The old cat was dying in the bushes. Its breaths came slow, slow, and still it looked out over the sweetness of the back lawn, the swaying of tall grass in the hot wind, the way sunlight warmed the garbage can's sparkling lid. It closed its hot
Bread and Cake
The black Mercedes with the Ayn Rand vanity plate crashed through the glass bus stop and came to rest among a bakery’s upturned tables. In the stunned silence, fat pigeons descended to the wreckage and pecked at the scattered bread and cake. The driver slept, head to the wheel. The pigeons grew rich with crumbs. The broken glass winked. God grinned.