I don’t go outside anymore. There are too many reasons not to. The toxic iron sky, the red, copper-lined streets. Everything is metal. The earth is covered in tremendous steel monoliths dedicated to fallen gods. Any faces are unfriendly with fascinating eyes filled with metallic rage. But I try not to worry about the blood and the poison. Here in my cozy, dark apartment I have all that I need. I slip a cube of artificial ice into a glass of synthetic scotch, lay down on my floral print sofa, and watch East of Eden until I sleep.
.....
Alex Vigue is a Washington State writer with a degree in creative writing from Western Washington University. He is a lover of fabulist fiction but sometimes poetry takes over his fingers and demands itself to be written. Alex has been published in Phantom Drift, Hermeneutic Chaos, and Jeopardy Literary Journal. You can always find him on twitter (@Kingwithnoname) reading stories to the birds and making friends with lions.
