She approached the mail with an eye that stares down the letter, with a mouth that admits no train. Single minded, she would not be mowed. Some jump track, but her, never. Heat of the steel as guide, hum where she put her lips whispered, “incoming, oncoming,” sweet derailment.

Barefoot on a city street, she walked after the traffic lights went blinking middle-of-the-night yellow, when children should be home. Not only children.

By day, ants built their tiny mounds between cracks in the sidewalk, and she felt the dry, laborious crumbs accelerate between her toes. Not mud, not mud. This soil had purpose, had industry. Kick it and tomorrow they would re-heft, the ants.

Milk drifted in its bottle. Her wisdom teeth widened in her gums. Headache, inflammation, the whole nine yards. She held her jaw in her hands, in front of her breast like a dowsing rod at the end of her arms in her uncouth hands. Called out to God, but God not taking calls that day.

She was on her own with finding the water. And the next train out was a contrary boyfriend, undependable in his ways, distracted in his loving.

The crossing bars came down, the warn light slapped her retina, red warm as bath and god-awful clanging. The Cyclops folded dark into a star, a super nova, which in fact had been foretold. Wherein the lady vanished.

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Donna lives and works in Cincinnati, Ohio. Her work has appeared in dozens of print and online venues: Meridian, Faultline, Night Train, Mid-American Review, Freight Stories, Another Chicago Magazine, decomp, Juked, to name a few. She has recently completed the first draft of a novel featuring what else but love and tribulation.

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Green light means go!