Dipsomapolis: a wrecked promenade through horrors of the North Page 3

asked me to wait outside while she closed up. Which, I did, nervously. The streets were abandoned once more, but I feared anything could come running around the corner of the block at any time.

  After waiting five minutes, I pulled on the door to go back inside but it was locked. I looked in the window and gasped at seeing thick layers of dust and cobweb covering everything inside. Belle was gone.

  I turned and faced the streets, alone.

  Clusters of people sporadically hovered about aimlessly, apparently no longer instructed to attack. I slowly passed by them. These same clusters vanished once I was far enough away. So long as they were no imminent threat, I wondered the whole city searching for Belle. If one piece of consolation was still out there, I wanted it more than I knew it to be hopeless.

  I wound up at the hotel empty handed, no luck found, intending to sleep a few hours before getting the hell out of Minneapolis. I could not though, not after the last few days. There was no peace to let your guard down enough in that damn city, where the villainous benefited from your insensibility. I did not waste another minute. I gathered my things, packed my car and got on the interstate just as the Sun peeked over the horizon from the East.

  I’ve told few people in my life, but I am a sick lover of sunrises - the overture of a new day and onset of new chances. It is a reminder that what goes around comes around, and that all things must pass. There is nothing more beautiful on this planet than the sunrise. I took off my sunglasses, and smiled as the Sun guided me home.

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  About the Author

  Gari Hart is a Chicago based writer, sometimes musician, partial artist, infrequent actor.

  DIPSOMAPOLIS is his first published work in nearly a decade.

  Connect with Gari Hart

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