Ian M. Anderson

"You crashed." These two words were repeated from a fog at my elbow as I regained consciousness. My wrist throbbed, and my car hissed behind me. "You crashed." "Yes, I know." "But why are you out here?" Lucidity came with pain. "I -- got out. Tripped over this planter." The last time I looked at the car clock it read 4:12am. My eyes had been too heavy. I woke with my head on the steering wheel, my Toyota crumpled against a concrete wall that jutted into the street. Sweet potato vines spilled over the edge. "I heard you crash." "Yeah. I'm sure it was loud." Next to me sat a man who seemed almost too massive to be real. His legs were crossed, and he smiled before he repeated that, yes, it was loud. "I think I hit my head on the sidewalk," I said. "You're bleeding." When I didn't respond, he said, "You're bleeding." "Yes." "My name's Ma

The dormitory tiles are asbestos, white with specks, like a bird's egg. I don't know what kind of bird. Those speks are elongated in places, but that had to be the original design. It's not as though anything on the actual tiles has moved. My desk rests on hollow metal posts, and in places I can see where it is anchored to the wall with large screws. I run my fingers over them sometimes. One has been stripped enough to be sharp to the touch. A pale green top, a thick wooden shelf, a bare bulb hidden under the shelf with a string to pull to light it. When I need to concentrate, I think about my desk, especially when they laugh or talk. Like they are now. I don't have books. Well, I have one or two. Mostly, though, I have notebooks stacked on the wooden shelf right over where the bulb is. Two red ones and the rest are black. Composition notebooks with the speks in black or red. I know I said the floor is specked, and I thought of a bird's egg then, but those n