It’s hot as hell here in July and my air conditioner’s broken and the passenger’s window’s jammed. The interstate is closed and they say it’s under construction. I say the whole fucking place is. I make it to my parents’ house in shit time and punch it up the street as the sky around me flashes and the radio cracks just before the lighting and the thunder half a step after and you can smell it but there’s no rain. Silver clouds rise like mountains and there’s fire at the peaks, everything is charged like Tesla Coils but there’s not enough of anything to break the heat or bring a change and I don’t hear screams or horns or sirens and so I’m driving faster. I think about a drink and then again about rolling it, about things to cut the tension and I am like July before the rain, I think, danger and power and nowhere to go, hot as hell and almost broken.
About the writer:
Christopher Cocca graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School in 2011. His poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have been published in Geez, GENERATE, The Ursinus College Lantern, pindeldyboz, elimae, Thieves Jargon, Brevity, Creative Nonfiction and elsewhere.
Image: “Abstract Berlin Traffic” photograph by James Metelak, Oklahoma Photographer in Kyrgystan. @privitfotog