FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
I loved Rena as much as a patient could love their gynecologist. We had tea together in her office. I cried when she asked how I was doing, and she showed me pictures of her terriers.
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.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
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.
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.
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.
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 day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
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.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
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.
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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