when it rains
by Adam J. Galanski-De León
The moon is a sickle in the sky. Fields of dead stars flicker in and out of the twilight. Rain falls. The industrial west side has dropped into black. Lightning bolts shatter the clouds as glass beer bottles shatter in the gangways. Somewhere in some back street the rats scatter from the dumpsters as boots stomp against the concrete, echoing the claps of thunder.
Now there’s a body floating in the Chicago River. Hope it makes it down to Bubbly Creek and foams there in the residual entrail pollution of the dead stockyards.
I’m driving on the Kennedy Expressway. Cars are backing up; eyes of android faces glowing on bumpers like some soulless beacon of a distant coast. My car is so shit, it works without the keys in. Chugs like a lawnmower. I spit chew into an old coffee cup flanked by candy wrappers and lotto receipts in the cupholder. Talk radio adds to the white noise of the rain. I am not as young as I used to be. My body hurts now. I don’t know how long I can live off jobs like these.
This buddy I had growing up had a dad who did stuff like me. He warned us when we got our first tattoos, “Don’t become the illustrated man,” like we’d never get a job. The real advice I got from him was don’t listen to a word of advice from anyone. Fuck that.
A car is broken down on the side of the expressway. Sirens swell my head. Red and blue reflects in spirals off wet pavement. A sign for a Polish church off the off-ramp says, “JESUS I TRUST IN YOU”. I shrug to myself.
Look at these fuckin’ cops.
There are people who are for the authority of fools. They think crime is solved in a vacuum. Put away one guy, and you snuff your boot on the flame of dissent. They don’t realize crime isn’t committed; crime is created. It’s created by systems. It’s a label white collar guys put-on blue-collar guys so no-one notices that they are robbing the whole world blind. Put as many broken bodies in prison as you’d like. I’m not the real criminal. Them fuckers are.
Call me a cynic. I think I’m a realist. Humans never evolved, just our technology. Just our greed. What separates us from animals is not our humanity, but our violence. It is a whole different type of violence than the violence of beasts. It is a violence of a hatred so pure it can cut through diamonds. It is the screaming birth of a bastard in some ancient cave while rain pounds the rock faces of a desolate landscape. It is the boot and the breaking of bone. Skyscraper fists swiping Gods from the heavens. On the Morton Salt Factory roof is an image of a young girl walking on salt, holding an umbrella.
The words painted on it sum up just how I feel.
“WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS.”
Photo of Adam J. Galanski-De León
BIO: Adam J. Galanski-De León is the author of the short story collection, The Laughter of Hyenas at Bay (Raging Opossum Press). He lives in Chicago, IL with his wife, daughter, and four cats. His novella,
Intrepid, is out July 2025 from Alien Buddha Press.