A Prayer to the Lord of Everlasting Chains
by Kevin Singer Red stains my hands. I go to wipe them by reflex with my blue bandanna, the one I wash myself so Shelby never gets a glimpse of the maroon blotches that won’t come clean. Instead, I leave it hidden and let the juice run down my fingers. This batch isn’t tart like the last one. These berries are strong and bursting and alive. So alive. So healthy. Shelby would never brag—she’s not one to talk herself up—but she’s a horticultural Einstein. I lick my fingers and savor the sugar. Fructose, Shelby would correct me. Sugar, baby, it’s all the same. My gums sting. I wince. Out the window, the morning sun scatters light along the rusty hills that shelter us from the westerly winds. Encantamiento, they called this place. Blue sky, gold sun, ruby dirt speckled with green scrub. Enchanting, truly. I get how Shelby never wants to leave, especially after the Day of Fire, but that blue bandanna in my back pocket tells me she may not have much of a choice. The walkie-talkie crackle...
