There is no cat in this house. We would know. We live here.
“I do not tell him that sometimes when he touches my breasts I feel very sad.”
“We want you to write something for our anthology, the Malignant One explained.”
She drank a bottle of poison. It must have been household cleaner. His poem doesn’t specify.
“Someday he’ll meet a fate I didn’t think of, and that will be my fault, too.”
“We called the paper to place an ad asking if anyone had lost a wallet, an earring, and a cash wad.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t have to stay anywhere.”
“Life was a vigil and you had to know the precedents.”
Everything seemed like a metaphor, as if I was a teenager or a poet.
“I’m an undertaker. I lost a lady I buried.”
Each time she opened her mouth, whoever was nearby liked her a little less.
He was never nice, yet I let him move in. This, I thought, was experience.
You’ll survive, Elon said. That’s why I sent you.
“A sign in the window said No Minors after a certain hour.”
In Cairo, teenagers—literal and figurative—were in control of everything.
They watched the uprising on the phone, while eating apricot pie.
The classified ad said only PHONE WORK and a number. “Look,” he said. “It’s not what anybody’d call honest work.”
“This was her punishment for accepting everything and staying quiet.”
The audience are asked not to begin to die unexpectedly.
“I speculate that surely I cannot be the sole inhabitant.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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