FICTION
“Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.”
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
You’ve been dreading this day since the moment you found out you were pregnant—perhaps even before.
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.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
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.
She turns her back for me to fasten the rows of metal hooks. Why isn’t our small, tender freedom enough?
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.
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.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
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 know you shouldn’t keep wild animals as pets, but I’ve had the same spider in my bathroom sink for over two weeks.
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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.
I don’t know why I was still talking about the rapture. I certainly didn’t believe in it. Regardless, it remained a thief…
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
Share some abandon.
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