Fiction
1 min
Coalpunk
Cole Mirman
The streetlamps' dim orange halos strobe by our motorcarriage as we speed through dark, humid air greased by engine oil and warm smoke. We laugh and fight for a chance to steer, asphalt burning beneath us. Police horns rage after, furious they can't keep up.
Black soot falls snowlike from the smog clouds perpetually shrouding our city, our faces already gray with yesterday's ash—we're cinder jockeys, charboys, coalpunks, child-laborers from the mines and factories who stole their boss's buggy. Tomorrow we'll be punished, but right now we're free, dusty wind streaming in our hair, the night sweet with our exhaust.
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