FLASH
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.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
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.
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.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
The weeks go like this: accepting, horny, hopeful, sad. I’m four different people trying to establish one perspective on a major life event – on the creation of life itself.
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
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.
Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.