Her Boots
She stood there in those beat-up boots, laces knotted like some half-assed noose, shawl hanging off her shoulders the way a drunk hangs off a barstool—loose, tired, ready to slide off and die. Out ahead, the lake was frozen solid, a big, grey nothing staring back at her, the closest thing to forgiveness she’d ever
Bullets for Johannesburg
it’s closing time again and the “Road to Riches” machine is coughing up its last cheap mercy, some neon one-armed slot-machine in a Transvaal dive that smells of stale Castle Lager and broken dreams. You feed it coins like you feed a whore lies, and it shits back a plastic cup of rand coins, clatter-clatter-clatter,