fiction

dead roses
The Cycle

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.

Dead History

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.

Cost of Care

I reached for my invoice, which Dr. George, holding it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a soiled diaper, dropped into my hand.

Evan

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.

What Did I Mention To Ya?

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 Rupture

Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.

The Bird That Carried One Hundred Messages To America

At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.

graffiti on cement
Slabs

We drifted junk with a sledgehammer looking for juice. Sometimes the rage.

Junk

It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.