Drying Up

Slim-jim meat is stretched thin over my frame.  As it dries it cracks, and as it cracks it peels, having been left out entirely too long in the parchment of sunlight that glares back at me from the soldering iron. 
My quick handiwork came into the competition late, though they allowed it, and only now do I recognize how rushed, how truly antiseptic it was, not just in intent or origin, but execution and balance.  It will never be a contender that way, I'm afraid.

A nasty turn of events. I've become sick from too much medication.  My throat has constricted down into a straw hole of sandpaper and the once exciting possibility that loomed at the beginning of the day has tilted into a netherworld of unease and extremity.  Been telling myself for years, my voice frozen days before being ripe for transit, for the sake of purchase.  There are car lights in the distance approaching.  I can feel them cool on my face.  Quick.  Turn, before they overtake us.  stay off the main road.  Hide goddamnit, you don't know who they are.