stu sherman

November 2nd, Midnight, Price Chopper

Halloween is a distant memory now. The night shift is on listening to a black tape recorder at a folding table in the back placed out of sight of the security cameras, next to a cooler filled with freezer burned offal where ice crystals have formed colonies on hearts and suet. A skinny man stands at the checkout line with a gallon of OJ and a pack of American Spirits nestled under his shaking fingers. He is wearing a full knights armor that is bright silver like aluminum foil. There are giant circular besagews in front of each shoulder, which glimmer television blue under the flickering fluorescent light. He lights a Spirit with a Zippo tucked into his breastplate as he walks to his dented Volvo and drives west toward the black escarpment looking for a joust.

—Stu Sherman