The heatwave was getting to everyone. Film & gender studies degrees didn’t help. Katie found herself in increasing despair about an Insta-famous chow chow in Seoul or somewhere named Xiao Hong whose fur had been dyed to look like a rare type of pomegranate – &, according to one micro-influencer with dubious ties to the fracking industry, was later dissected like one. My roommates got catatonically blitzed & pretended we were slaves in São Paulo, then Jews in California, then Mormons on bicycles. But I managed to stay chill, serene even, letting the news reports cement my own sweaty madness with facts. The coroner’s office, for example, was double-stacking bodies.
Chris Vola is the author of six books, most recently I is for Illuminati: An A-Z Guide to Our Paranoid Times. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his new and forthcoming poetry appears in New Pop Lit, Anti-Heroin Chic, Horror Sleaze Trash, Failed Haiku, and The Main Street Rag. He lives in New York.