by Jamie Iredell
We had parked at the Slough, this place that could’ve been prehistoric, for its waters and fogged-in eucalypti, pelicans dive-bombing for sardines, otters smacking up abalone on their little bellies. We seesawed the dock and the waves rocked out below the sky and our descent into the water was so slow that millennia lived by and our shoes wouldn’t even get soaked. They said we couldn’t drive home. Afterwards, Ike felt a joint tucked into a shirt pocket, unfound during the pat-down, and one end of it bound for the Nissan’s cigarette lighter. Beyond the trees the power plant glowed red, and made the fog do the same. I knew in the future—within the hour—I’d drive toward the light, and past it.