Virginia shot me and kicked me out of her car—a little awkward, since she had to unbuckle my seatbelt first. I hit the pavement on my elbow, and my funny bone wouldn’t shut up about it. I coughed blood, tasted hellfire, and looked at all the signs I couldn’t read.
It was past 3 a.m. in Chinatown and the storefronts were shuttered. I grabbed a bag of groceries nearby, and out spilled rotten oranges and 13 fortune cookies, and I read each one while bleeding on Hill Street.
fiction | Tommy Tung
art | Simon Birch