FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
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.
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…
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
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.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
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 know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.
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…
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.
Share some abandon.
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