‘Watercolours’ by EC Dorgan

Tonight we’re roasting marshmallows under a meat sky; if we hold our straightened clothes-hangers at the right angle, the flesh will impale itself onto the metal and stain the caramelized marshmallow a lusty pink. 

If my son were here, he’d be recording. He’s smart to find his way in the New Economy. I have a neighbour who makes their living walking along the white picket fence, mouth open to the sky, filming, catching meat.

It’s only my wife I wonder about. She’s always frowning at the sky with wet eyes. 

Before the New Economy, she painted watercolours. Now she’s renounced art. She doesn’t like the new meat sunsets, and that’s why it’s just me and my daughter with our marshmallows. My wife won’t go outside when it meat-rains. Last winter, during the meat-blizzard, she locked herself in the basement and made us professionally clean the windows before opening the curtains. 

A hunk of flesh impales itself on my clothes-hanger, and the juices splatter on my cheek. I wipe my face. The meat stains my marshmallow. My daughter takes it.

She’s just like me. Embracing the New Economic Order. She’s already taking tourists meat-fishing in the sky using our old lawn-mower tractor and a roll of yarn.

There’s only one marshmallow left when my wife comes out of the house, wearing gloves and holding an umbrella.

I call to her, “Will you paint us?”

Her face falls, and my daughter gives me one of those killer teen looks. She drops her metal wire, and her marshmallow falls onto the blue tarp where we collect meat. She walks to her mother and they go inside.