How I Met my Husband

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interests as mutually intertwined.My wrists chaffed, but not from the cuffs. Those felt flimsy, cold and tight, awkward and uncomfortable, the airflow — liberating only by comparison. My arm hurt as the deputy dragged me onwards but not from their grip; pins and needles, a starburst of feeling, emerged sharp and shocking from where the bulldozer’s metal tread had pressed tight against my bicep. The steel was scrapped and rusted, orange flakes scattered like stars across my green hoody, embrittled and oxidized. They’d cut my hands loose from the lockbox with a jaws-of-life, operated by a swarthy fireman who leaned in, contorting about the bulldozer’s

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blade, masked up and apologetic.I thought about giving a little yelp as if he clipped a finger, but that’s no way to gain an ally, so I smiled with my eyes then slipped him my number before the cops could slap me with cuffs, leading me past the gauntlet of workers, displaced and angry, always looking for a target.If you would like to learn more about the Enbridge Line 3 project and why tar sands are kinda a shitty way for us to extract resources visit <a href="https://www.honorearth.org/"></a><a href="https://www.honorearth.org/">honorearth.org</a>…with whom I have no affiliation. (Thanks.)</article></body>

(flash fiction for those feeling fierce)

Snarling faces, a line of them, endless, contorted, darting by, rubbery and flat. They seemed shallow things, programmed to act but lacking the inspiration for poetic heights, lacking the ability to see our interests as mutually intertwined.

My wrists chaffed, but not from the cuffs. Those felt flimsy, cold and tight, awkward and uncomfortable, the airflow — liberating only by comparison. My arm hurt as the deputy dragged me onwards but not from their grip; pins and needles, a starburst of feeling, emerged sharp and shocking from where the bulldozer’s metal tread had pressed tight against my bicep. The steel was scrapped and rusted, orange flakes scattered like stars across my green hoody, embrittled and oxidized. They’d cut my hands loose from the lockbox with a jaws-of-life, operated by a swarthy fireman who leaned in, contorting about the bulldozer’s blade, masked up and apologetic.

I thought about giving a little yelp as if he clipped a finger, but that’s no way to gain an ally, so I smiled with my eyes then slipped him my number before the cops could slap me with cuffs, leading me past the gauntlet of workers, displaced and angry, always looking for a target.

If you would like to learn more about the Enbridge Line 3 project and why tar sands are kinda a shitty way for us to extract resources visit honorearth.org…with whom I have no affiliation. (Thanks.)