Clay Pigeons

The last day of the month crawled by. It crawled like the afternoon sun crawled, a sun unseen but for its subtle siblings, an army of fleeting images, forming and fleeing along the tier of windshields in the cars parked in front of Taylor’s small store. Bright, far too bright, these beacons winked on and off, glaring at Taylor as he walked here and there in his store, going about his business, going about his attempts to avoid his business, going about his efforts to try and ignore the fact that there was no business.


The Heroes were all made in a factory on the other side of the country, and Their opinions and actions and lifestyles were made desirable to Parker’s customers, thanks to loud noises endlessly generated by the factory. The loud noises were called “Commercials.”