FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
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…
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.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
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.
“The woman was a catastrophe,” Carlos told me at the time. “But she was as honest as my face is ugly.”
When I was on earth I was a pretty good kid. I only got drunk when I needed to get drunk.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
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.
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.
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.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
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.
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.
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
Share some abandon.
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