Thirst

That night you were staggering down the moss-cobbled street, rounding round the rusted curb,
arms shooting out as you stumbled into a mail post. You lied on that road, back slumped over the
gutter, broken teeth gnawing on an apple core, eyes closed to the world. You spit out the black
pits, and they rolled down the sidewalk cracks. I leaned against a wall, thinking about whiskey. It
was a ghost town. Nothing but ruined copper and scraps of newspaper curdled on concrete. For
some reason, the lights still worked. The night brightened by lamp posts, tanning gold like a
panner by the creek side, sloshing murky water with his sieve till he found that brilliant yellow
gleam. As night grew, we walked past the broken-down brothels, the rotting mansions, towards a
greyed motel. There was no clerk at the desk, so I reached into the key cabinet. I noticed
something white. A bone. We didn’t touch anything else in our room that night. Didn’t dare open
any of the closets.

We feared finding more skeletons.

 

 

Sophia Li is a student at the St. John’s School in Houston, Texas. She enjoys cloud-gazing and seeks to one day climb Mount Everest. She finds solace in writing and bleeds her heart through her pen.

Allison Goldin is an artist living in California. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles.