SmokeLong Quarterly

In the produce bin, among discarded corn shucks and carrot tops, but discernible in a transparent plastic bag, a severed human hand lay with its curled fingers extended toward her, begging. She stared.

“Like I needed this, right?” she said.

Tossing a head of broccoli in her cart, she glanced over her shoulder, steering toward the meat counter. She waved a small goodbye. It was an omen, she reckoned.