FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
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 day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
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.
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…
I reached for my invoice, which Dr. George, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a soiled diaper, dropped into my hand.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
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.
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.
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.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
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.
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.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
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.
Share some abandon.
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