His neighbors believe Quibble goes to the exclusion zone to watch the pollution lights dance. Most residents go now and again, but none as often as Quibble. Parked on the road bordering the barrier fence, he likely simply stares as the toxins expire, a rare few spitting optics. Quibble would not let anyone know that years of exposure have created sympathies within him, such that a few days removed from the zone, he lags, his tempo drums a beat off. Coming close to the decay, he recharges. Quibble spreads against the fence, almost humming, rapt, evolved almost into a disposable.
July 31, 2025 [Issue 46]
Grey Sparrow Journal 