FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
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.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
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.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
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.
Share some abandon.
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