flash
Short, incisive pieces that cut to the core in a just a few words.
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’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
You’re joking, I say, interrupting the steady bumping of the doctor’s bushy white mustache.
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.
A man with a fistful of showbags said, “That cow sounds like a person trying to sound like a cow.”
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.
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.
I’d never heard of anyone having a second baby right after the first one, but everything was so strange in those early days of motherhood that I just acted on instinct.
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.
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.
