FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
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.
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.
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.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
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…
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
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…
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.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
Share some abandon.
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