fiction
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Before the headaches began, I thought myself sturdy: firm in my foundations, set square like a saltbox house.
At the end of the meeting, the villagers agreed to contribute shillings and pounds to sponsor Elochi to a university in America.
It was spring and the hills were irradient, like they had to get out all their green in one short burst before catching fire.