FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
Directly after the arrival of the Armada, this model made sense, as the gap between Unthulanian and Human cultures prevented a commensurable exchange of practices…
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
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.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
Hitting up homes peopled by those with nothing much to lose was an easy score. The less you had, the less likely you were to defend it. But this home was different. Its residents had a lot to lose and the will to fight for it.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
The young boy goes to bed and kisses his mother goodnight. He goes to bed and closes his eyes and wishes his family good sleep.
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.
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…
Sitting at the bar on Pacific Avenue. With the seashells in the walls. Same bartender from last year, still here, making the same lethal Mai Tais.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
Share some abandon.
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