“Buy milk. Pay bills. Sever arm. Water fern.”
“It’s not that we don’t remember what it was like before the sound. If you asked us, we could tell you.”
“Don’t get pimply before a trial. It’s a sign of stress. They’ll think you’re lying.”
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.”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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