Mr. Death

The security guard at the door had asked you to open your backpack, please. All the contents had crumbled as soon as they’d been exposed to light. Now a bride and groom were standing on a raised platform with blindfolds in place. “I feel like we’re in the apocalypse,” I whispered. “We kinda are,” you answered. And yet most of the attendees maintained the blank expression usually reserved for looking at glowing screens. An officiant in a hooded garment joined the couple up on stage. We should’ve left then, before the dancers sprang out from somewhere and scattered your ashes.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is on the pavement, thinking about the government.