He’d never been a man of vision. He hadn’t been much of anything until the day lightning struck him. The smell of singed wires had stayed with him for months, long after he discovered the unnatural side effects of a billion volts of energy blasting
Ms. Royal had spent her entire life in this doorway—from the carpenter’s shop to the painter, onto the installer's truck, and then, here, next to Mr. Turquoise. Turq, he insisted she call him. She thought nicknames a little too common, vulgar even, so she called
In his dreams, he revved and roared and smoked his tires on hot asphalt, jumping off the start line. He boomed through gritty, naked streets toward the finish line and white handkerchiefs waving from delicate hands. He dreamed because he could
