FLASH
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
The new octopus at the children’s aquarium was named Athena, and as we waited for her to emerge, I thought of the almost-too-faint second line on the pregnancy test three days before.
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
The day does not conclude with the gentle exhale of the earth, but with Mother Superior flipping the hourglass over, again.
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.
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.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.
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.
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.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”