FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
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.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
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 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.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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 woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
On the first day of our new life together, my husband realized that I was not interested in theoretical debate. He said it was okay by him and went out to get some pancake mix.
To be encased, Clint had always thought, was foolishness. Why allow yourself to be open to such sorrow?
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
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.
Share some abandon.
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