FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
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.
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.
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…
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 man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
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.
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.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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.
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
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…
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.
Share some abandon.
[Sassy_Social_Share]