FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
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.
My new neighbor is making a violin from a cigar box. He got the cigar box from a guard. The guard, presumably, got it from outside the Fence.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
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.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
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…
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.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
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.
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
Share some abandon.
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