R.L. Black

Things That Crumble Like Bridges

I remember where I was and what I was doing when the Silver Bridge crumbled into the Ohio River. It was only ten days before Christmas and I was in the fire station, in a shiny red antique truck, playing with the wood steering wheel and watching firemen eat rolled up balls of raw ground beef. That firehouse was my second home after Daddy found some girl he liked better than Momma, better than me, and ran off with her to Kentucky. The firemen built me a soap box car with red racing stripes and a big red number eight and they entered me in the derby. I took second place and I hung the ribbon that wasn’t blue on my bedroom door and stared at it every night till Momma turned the light out, then I slept, and dreamt of gigantic moth-like creatures with red eyes and black, silky wings, and things that crumble like bridges.

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R.L. Black lives in Tennessee and writes flash fiction and poetry. She is a reader for The Riding Light Review and for Freeze Frame Fiction. You can find out more about the author and her publications at rlblack.weebly.com.

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