by Joshua Coffman
Three dozen eggs and a loaf of 12 grain bread. Levi struggled to pull
his wallet out of his pocket. The long tail of his coat left too much
fabric in the way, he felt the eyes of the cashier burning fiery holes
through his forearm. He scraped the back of his hand on a button.
Three dozen men stood outside the capitol brandishing their night vision head gear and armored vests. Levis struggled to pull his magazine out of his pocket. The velcro was annoying to grasp in this half-seated position on the railing by the stairs. His phone rang.
Three dozen cars lined the streets near their home in the suburbs. There was a police car ticketing one of the guests who had parked in front of a fire hydrant. Levi struggled to open the bow on one of the presents. It was embarrassing to be 28 and still having birthday parties at his parent's house.
Levi. Three dozen Levi's. Mailed to different addresses. Blue glitter spilled from the mailbox, the explosion only surprising the neighbor. Bonnie had been expecting something. She didn't even flinch. The two men hiding behind the garden shed melted back into the woods. Not today.