Maybe Hell is white instead of all that red flame.
White shelves. White crescents of light adorning the necks of soda bottles. White ripples of light on the tiles. A mountainous display of white paper towel rolls.
Govinda looks over his shoulder, raises an eyebrow. “Are you alright?”
He’s stopped in the middle of the aisle. Westie plants his feet on the floor to avoid stumbling into him. “I’m fucking tired.”
Govinda narrows his eyes. “I know.”
He turns back to the cart and keeps pushing and walking.
Westie trails behind him. He knows he’s dragging his feet. He’s hunching his shoulders and his blonde hair helps shield the bags under his eyes.
But it feels like exhaustion has swallowed his every bone whole. He wants to drop onto the floor and sleep. The ceiling is striped with florescent lights, but he can close his eyes to it.
It’s almost eleven at night, and there’s only a few people milling around the store, murmuring into cellphones or to themselves. Govinda turns into the empty bread aisle, his cart chugging along. He slips his hand under a loaf of bread, lifts it slightly to read the expiration date. The plastic packages crinkles under his fingertips.
“I don’t like wholewheat,” Westie says...
To read the full piece by Lake W. buy a copy of issue #1 - available in the shop now.