FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
The most entertaining thing about Miguel is that when he was 13 he dislocated his shoulder playing basketball and can now pop it in and out of place. There is nothing particularly interesting about Miguel.
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
None speak of how the streets collide in coarse seams like scars, the fresh cobbles unable to level with the ones shaken from their mortar by uncountable seasons.
Another image rises to us both: A man hunched before a TV, watching historical documentaries, correcting incorrect facts. Rasputin was not a priest, damn it.
And then he feels that familiar sensation of drifting—when his body untethers from the material world and he soon dissolves into a fine, floating mist that evaporates into the atmosphere.
Darkness always follows.
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
Ever since your son brought you here, things have been different. He was crying when he dropped you off. You still don’t know why.
Allanson looked out of the viewport, at the ragtag flotilla of ships trailing behind, some of them slow to catch up. It was to be expected with the little time that they’d had to cobble the fleet together.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
I know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
and on and on and on and on they ran, the Merry Men, running from a hundred and one arrows bought with taxes stolen twice over…
Share some abandon.
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