Hardened human poop bounced out of the bucket and onto the dirt road.
Everybody looks at the piece of sky south of the town. Everybody sees it now.
There was no enemy in front of me, no target. Just a big bottle of unknown.
My tongue swelled up, rough, against the inside of my teeth and the dry of the roof of my mouth.
But Grandpa never swung no cleavers.
It had to be handed over to the state because it was the only source of fertilizer.
What the fuck is an “I”?
Randy would like us to know the following:
Randy Dong is an attempting-writer and the host of Story Night New York. Randy primarily writes short-fiction and is working on his first collection. He would like to welcome everyone near New York City to join the Story Night Event, held twice a month, where cool beers are served, cool people are to be met, and cool stories are to be shared. You can find him at his Substack. Comment anywhere you'd like to chat about writing and/or learn about the specifics of Story Night New York.
And thank you, Randy!
