FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
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.
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.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
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.
The most entertaining thing about Miguel is that when he was 13 he dislocated his shoulder playing basketball and can now pop it in and out of place. There is nothing particularly interesting about Miguel.
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.
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.
Share some abandon.
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