Meth Birds
Idaho Falls is infested with meth birds, fliting around frenetic and jerky until they crash. They ride in crazy eights all around the pass-through town that had big dreams never realized. They don’t pass through, just go until the charge dies, their buzz fades. They shed their two-wheeled wings, cast them upon broken sidewalks, near fake falls, littering the path until the scooter girl comes with her truck. They end their days sharing happy hour fries and sugary cocktails at Chili’s sitting next to guys proud of their bleached mullets, the guys who escaped meth, but not Idaho Falls.
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Lot Lizard Christmas
At a Flying J maybe Barstow, maybe Bako, she changed in the ladies, and too soon to buy a shower, washed herself up in the sink. First find a “john,” then score, grab a cheeseburger and Mountain Dew before shaking her ass between big rigs, heading eastbound home before Christmas. She knocked on cab windows, charming big iron pilots, hair wet, day old t-shirt but fresh panties, healing scabs, asphalt feet. She found two tricks on a crisp high desert morning, hummed holiday carols, belly full, some pocket money, but too wired to sleep.
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JD Clapp writes in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in The Milk House, Rural Fiction Magazine, Wrong Turn Literary, Revolution John, The Whisky Blot, among several others. He has forthcoming work in A Common Well Journal, Fleas on the Dog, and Literally Stories. His story, One Last Drop, was a finalist in the 2023 Hemingway Shorts Literary Journal, Short Story Competition.
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