5, 6, 7, 8 (2016, Recent Work Press)

Four authors, four numbers. Monica wrote to five.

The sweetest gear

Hitting it means you’re on the cruise. Everything’s open. Naked in a good way, like all the windows are down and your hair is loved-up by a warm-fuelled wind. It’s not the climax gear but the after, where colour floods back and sweet is the crisp pine tint off the swinging air-freshener.

I give you five matches

Make them into thirteen, I say.
Without breaking any, you do.

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Driving in the two door,

five seater, the 2x4 across your lap. We made love to you to cheer you up. You didn’t want to bash the old man for money he’ll never have. We lit cigs from the hot spiral to be cool. Frags of your durry stick to the heat as you puff puff to get her going. You jam the lighter in the hole, giving the car a drag. In back, Knighty and Poof scrape baby food from glass jars with a metal spoon they share. The noise shits me. “Quick about it,” I tell you as I brake at the flats. Poof throws a jar at the bricks. You’re walking back already. No wood; just an old man with a blood-run face tagging. “Better give him a lift to Calvary,” you say, “Squeeze the fuck over Poof.”