Joshua Marie Wilkinson
History of the Motel as Industry
The oars stood upright against the bed which was propped against the door of the motel room. The locks had been broken in the night before and the music we'd learned the shapes of was kicking something slowly out of us. There was no chimney to climb out of or field to drift off to. The tub was leaking and my money was stuffed like cherries in my pockets. Suddenly a woman's voice asked us for quiet and we held there. I placed my black hair comb on my tongue. My little brother tied his shoes together which meant he would not budge until I made another promise. I made another promise and her rising voice fell into our faces like a buzzing.