The glue factory

Marshall Sidney MOORE


Short story. Clouds stain the horizon: an ice storm, according to the television. Starting late this afternoon, at the height of rush hour, the northern suburbs can expect to be coated with freezing slush. The people here drive like clowns on cocaine. Since I am far to the north of the city, an hour from where suburbs give way to farms and forests, it's probably sleeting already. I'm being kept deep underground in a room warm enough to make most clothing too hot to wear. Despite the heat, these images of the storm-darkened sky send chills rippling through me. Stifling in here, Antarctica outside, and I am naked. I am naked.