Hot Metal
by Brad Rose
Darla is mean as bees. I’d rather be eaten alive. I told her I had no choice; it was either kill or be killed. “I told you nobody should carry that many knives,” she sneered. We got in the car and drove toward Billy and Raven’s place. It wasn’t even music on the radio. As we crossed Hot Metal Bridge, the Monongahela looked black as a cobra in a tar pit. Nobody jumps from there. Not high enough. Ever since the amputation, she’s had a chip on her shoulder. Like it was my fault she needled-up her arm. I swerved so we wouldn’t run over a cat carcass on East Carson. There wasn’t much of it left. Darla smirked, “You know what I’m talking about, Curtis.” I swear, the damn car wasn’t even stolen.