FLASH
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
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.
When Laika the space dog comes back, bulleted to earth in a tiny white escape pod that dissolves upon opening, nobody can believe it.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
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.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.
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.
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.
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.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”