Prose Quote #228
I am a collector of abandoned shopping carts.
Skyscrapers made of mirrors glare brilliant orange, a trick of blindness, and I creep to a stop at every intersection. I can only intuit the change in traffic lights. Thankfully, the city center lies still. The solitude bleeds into my body and instead of feeling lonely, a bubble of singleton glee swells inside my chest. My shopping carts cling, clang, clatter inside my van and the music of metal on metal is an urban orchestral production. I raise my right hand high to conduct a pothole crescendo.
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The Kappa Child
(US edition: Red Deer Press, May 2002)
(winner of the 2002 James Tiptree, Jr. Award)
for Locus Online
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© 2002 by Locus Publications. All rights reserved.