flash
Short, incisive pieces that cut to the core in a just a few words.
I’m dancing with my best friend’s husband, under the influence of his jaws and thighs.
I run with a pack of older boys from our neighborhood, the only girl.
Through the dusty window in my parent’s bedroom, I watched the neighbor’s cattle graze.
He used to hold my hand on Commonwealth. I wonder sometimes if he ever still thinks about my mouth.
Jenna says that he typically goes for redheads, so I run to Target and buy a box of hair dye.
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.
Infant’s Name: A
Delivery Date: August 1, 2002
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.
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.
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.
Could someone hating you really cause a physical unease? Sure, why not.
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.
We said, Heck, that’s really something.
Sex is not a thank you card in this house.
Allanson looked out of the viewport, at the ragtag flotilla of ships trailing behind, some of them slow to catch up. It was to be expected with the little time that they’d had to cobble the fleet together.
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.
Mama sped along the highway, unbothered by bits of gravel that flew up from the front tires and struck the windshield of the sedan.