FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
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 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.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
I pushed my nose to within an inch from the rug. I sniffed, and sniffed, and I smelled something…not quite right, but I couldn’t place it.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
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.
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…
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
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.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
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.
I’d never heard of anyone having a second baby right after the first one, but everything was so strange in those early days of motherhood that I just acted on instinct.
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.
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.
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
Share some abandon.
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