THANK GOD FOR GRAPE SODA by Brent Vickers
The pressure displaced like a razor dancing upon tightly wound silk and immediately the walls collapsed. A cacophony of discordant harmonies polluted the sound-scape while rubble and bricks and old video games and albums and a pack of new guitar strings and a couple of shattered lamps, and a broken baby bottle, and some broken beer bottles, and some broken necks attached to ringlet-haired virgins polluted the ground. Dust was shaken up off its resting place and into the breath of every pedestrian minding his (or her) own business crossing the intersection. The bus loop was detoured, businessmen (and women) were late for work, and the dust that was shaken began to settle on top of the indistinguishable mess where a building that I used to live in once stood. Smoking a cigarette, disguised as a curious pedestrian minding my own business, I thought to myself: “Thank god (or allah) that the machine in my building doesn’t have grape soda. Thank god (or jah) that there is a corner store that does. Thank god (or whoever) for grape soda.”
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