one-hour zone

I can’t take a punch very well, because I tend to take all of them, and I’m taking all sorts from Owen right now—uppercuts, hooks, jabs—and I pass out until water whips my eyes. Mr. V is standing with Owen, shadows and meat hooks behind them. I feel like I’ve been catching meteors with my head. “Where’s the werewolf?” Mr. V asks. “I have to move my car. It’s in a one-hour zone,” I tell him. Owen crushes my nose with two knuckles. I pass out again, until twilight turns to darkness and the moon screams alive. Bones began expanding in my body. “You should have let me move my car,” I growl and give Mr. V the werewolf he’s looking for.

— flash fiction | Tommy Tung —
— art | Thomas Hooper —


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