3:15 am, 200 miles outside of Toronto; nothing but scratched cassettes and neon highway by Sam Jowett

3:15 am, 200 miles outside of Toronto; nothing but scratched cassettes and neon highway by Sam Jowett

3:15am, 200 miles outside of Toronto; nothing but scratched cassettes and neon highway. It’s a dozen colours at once, dandelion yellows and molten reds and seared violets. Our eyeshadow and nails wink at it, cosmetic supersymmetry, chameleonic, shifting when it does.

Parents said to be back by Sunday afternoon. Parents said don’t blow the speakers. Guilty on both counts. We slammed gas to floor, we pulled down the roof, we let the night gasp in.

Car’s parked at a 7/11 that shouldn’t exist, a relic, immune to the march of time. There are no stars, just miasmic light pollution, throbbing an atom-bomb glow on the horizon. Yet it tempts.

Picked up cassettes from London. Not that London. Imposter London. Shadow London. Our London. Pocketed them from house parties, loft shows, gigs on rooftops. Hightailed it when curfew was shattered, when cops came looking for trouble. Let them try. Let them pursue. Let them endlessly chase synth echoes.

3:15 am, 200 miles outside of Toronto. Gas at half tank. Door slam and we exchange fugitive glances. You hold up a cassette like it’s a playing card. You grin like it’s just broadsided the high-stakes table.

Sunglasses descend. Can’t help it, the neon scorches like a midnight sun. My mouth twitches. “What’s next?”

And you say, lips winking the words: “Lucifer, Baby.”

Bonus track:
“Romantic Illusions” by New Zebra Kid

About the Author:

Sam Jowett lives with their wonderful fiancée and more than a few sly reptiles, who serve as editors for most of the work you see here, bringing it up to snuff for human eyes. Their work has appeared in Moonchild Magazine, Crabfat Magazine, scribbled in dive bar bathrooms and underneath knock off soda bottle caps. You can follow them on Twitter @samuel_jowett.