They wanted him to stop kicking like that— it made their eyes corkscrew, drilled the sun in the sky so light dumped out like blood from a leak. The boy in the trunk wouldn't die. They drove and drove, and he dented the trunk's tight lid, called their names, then pounded the wheel wells with a tire iron. The sun
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.