“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
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.
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.
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 feel somewhat bad about using the death of my father as an excuse to prolong my trip.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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.
We drifted junk with a sledgehammer looking for juice. Sometimes the rage.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
A tortured simper uncoils itself across my mouth as I open another bottle of Penis wine.
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.
I eat my Oreos with relish. No—I mean I relish in the Oreos I eat.
I am in Rite Aid buying ChapStick and diapers, when people start washing away in the rain.
We said, Heck, that’s really something.
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.
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.
It all started with the curse of my tits. Women’s bodies are cursed. Everyone tries to look at them, everyone tries to ignore them.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
Sex is not a thank you card in this house.