Graveyard Shift

by M.L. Rio

It’s frighteningly easy to get lost in your own subconscious; any place you think you know is different after dark.

Some nights she wished for catastrophe to strike just so she’d have a big story to break, which only made her feel worse in the morning, because she still had no story, but she did have a fresh black bruise on her conscience.

I like her writing a lot

Friends and lovers came and went, but the Toyota was forever.

so true

Unlike them, Hannah had adapted to the liquid elasticity of the after-midnight hours. Oncoming headlights bent at impossible angles; neon refracted off windows and windshields. Every shadow stretched and warped, like reflections in a fun house mirror. Laughter, music, the whole human imbroglio half smothered by the weight of darkness. She liked the world better that way.

Tuck shook his head. “A known quantity is exactly what it isn’t,” he crunched, mouth full of candy. “It’s been used in folk medicine for centuries, but that’s the thing about folk medicine—it’s totally unregulated. So, yeah, if it’s the Civil War you might crush it to a powder and chug it with some small beer before the doctor comes to saw your legs off, but not an exact science, no.”

“Right. It’s a thing in pharmacology, mining traditional medicine for kernels of truth that can be bottled and labeled and sold to the Sacklers for a cool billion dollars. Then sold to all of us with a name like Xanotrax or Ziphoquil or whatever.” “Like biomedical cultural appropriation.” “Right.”

Tuck started to rub his eyes with his scratched hands, then thought better of it—skin already pink and swollen. Who knew what kind of chemical hocus-pocus he might be smearing across his corneas?

She owed it to them, to Curtis and Sandra and Alma and Zack, to finish what she’d started and do it right, salva veritate! With truth intact. FACT.

I love the whimsy

“What she wants.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Straight men are so stupid. Women aren’t complicated. If you don’t know how to get to where you want to be with her, just fucking ask for directions.” She threw back the last of her drink. “I

She leaned back from her own reflection, which felt too close, too sudden. This morning’s bedhead and last night’s hat hair fighting for dominance. Her face always looked thin, drawn, sharp—her pointed nose and chin almost ratlike in their way, or so her sister always told her. Ratface. Olive Oyl. Regan MacNeil. Her siblings picked the sweetest nicknames. But today her cheeks seemed softer. So did her mouth, her eyes, the slant of her brows. Everything a little bit … blurry. Hannah turned the taps on and cupped cool water into her face, hoping it would wake her up. She liked Tamar, but she hated liking people, so she wanted to be gone. She shut the faucet off and lifted her head to look for a towel. But there was her reflection again, more clearly. Maybe. She leaned closer, close enough that her breath smudged the glass. She froze there over the basin, water dripping from her chin. She tried to blink the blur away. Nothing happened. She raised one fingertip to the bridge of her nose and felt it—pale and scaly, but soft as warm candle wax. Sleep in her eyes.

Okay so I think she slipped into a fugue state induced by the "medicine" and what we don't see is the rage-fueled incident that occurs next, probably involving Tamara. A frustrating and suspenseful way to end things!!!!!