FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
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.
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.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
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.
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.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
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 don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
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…
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.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
I pushed my nose to within an inch from the rug. I sniffed, and sniffed, and I smelled something…not quite right, but I couldn’t place it.
Share some abandon.
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