FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
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.
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 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.
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
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…
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
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.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
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.
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.
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.”
Share some abandon.
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