Ash
by Wilson Koewing
We met day three of protests, downtown Denver. A teargassed teen crumbled to the ground and screamed so guttural everything else stopped; we learned the teargas melted his contacts onto his irises and right there, protesting what he’d seen, he lost his sight.
Ash donned all black; a mask with sharp teeth. Before police with riot shields and twirling batons she knelt.
I fell in love with what should have been a photograph.
From the steps of the capital the front range loomed. At dusk, the peaks silhouetted. As the sun inched behind the mountains a military helicopter slid by then disappeared in a flash like a fly landing on a cigar cherry.
“The fuck are you looking at?” she said.
An SUV sped between us and ran over two people.
I chased. Others closed in and stalled it. I leapt onto the bumper and boosted on top.
“Get off,” Ash said approaching, lighting a Molotov Cocktail.
She hurled it.
I jumped. The driver ran in the opposite direction. The SUV caught fire. Shielding her face, Ash reached inside and put it in neutral and kicked the bumper as it rolled away burning.
***
Leaving the street, we entered the lobby of a high-rise and rode the elevator up. The apartment was elegant with giant floor-to-ceiling windows; one was covered with a large white cloth. Above a mantle, a blown-up photo from Godard’s Breathless hung. The scene in the convertible with the pistol.
She slid rock’s glasses onto the counter, filled them with liquor and splashed ice.
“To generational wealth.”
She disappeared into a bedroom and returned with a giant HMI film light.
“Plug that into the generator,” she said tossing me the plug.
I connected it and the light backlit the words ABOLISH THE POLICE on the cloth.
The protest below roared. Lights from a police chopper blinded us. There was a ting and another against the window. They were shooting rubber bullets at bulletproof glass. We watched through the giant windows as small fires spread out below like hopeful rashes across the city’s grid.
***
I believed her when she said she’d level the building, Tyler Durden. We rode the elevator and watched the countdown on her iPhone. When it reached zero a skeleton laughed, but the building remained.
“Other people live here,” she said. “You thought I’d destroy it for nothing?”
When we exited through the revolving door, the building was surrounded. She swung her backpack over her shoulder, sprinted at the wall of police and was mowed down. The bag landed on the asphalt. Canned food, masks and bottled water fell out onto the street.
Wilson Koewing is a writer from South Carolina. His work has recently appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Ghost Parachute, Dreams Walking and The Fiction Pool.
