Aug 07, 2020
Sister Machinery
Here was the situation: Pearl belonged to Ba, Em belonged to Ma, and I belonged to my sisters.
Here was the situation: Pearl belonged to Ba, Em belonged to Ma, and I belonged to my sisters.
Oftentimes, the dead leave town. Olga thinks the dead leave because they find there is no place for them.
When a girl Miss-Mary-Macks with you, it’s like you share a birthday for a full breathless sixty seconds.
The plan was to seal themselves inside for as long as they needed to—until the world stopped burning, until it was safe.
One day, Brian would dissolve into the atmosphere and not come back. One day, this room, our home, our love, would no longer be able to contain him.
Houses were flooded, roofs were carried away in the wind...And a month before that, the condoms in my father’s wardrobe mysteriously disappeared.
“Hello, [a mispronounced version of your name], pleased to meet you.”
The Green Man dreams that one day he will throw away the flag and depart for home in a bug-free rocket ship. But not before the children grow up, walk instead of fly.
They like flirting with local women. When they’re satisfied with the season, they catch a plane and go back to gringolandia.
The bubbly letters were both a direction and a justification for the lines of people who shelled out $37.50 for a forty-five-minute “experience” at “the sweetest place on earth.”
Why can’t we imagine, just for the sake of argument, that a joyful spirit leaves some of themselves behind—an echo of joy in a place they once loved?
Her son’s name was Bison and, wouldn’t you know, she’d enjoyed calling him “Son” for short.
What is dramatic about wanting to protect ten kids from the bullshit of the world? Just ten. That’s all I want.
Her family had no wings, only legs that could traverse blocks at street level, where no one was allowed since the Sickness.
Somewhere far away, someone made a call, someone in power said yes to violence, and our friends would never get to see our friends say yes to love.
The girl, a matchmaker, asked to see Shlomo’s hand. Reaching from her coat pocket, she pressed a tarot card-sized photo into his palm.
He always smelled like fabric softener exhaust from the laundromat down our block: like blue bottles of Downy and Saturday nights, when Mami would blow dry my hair straight with dollops of Dippity-Doo.
Some just want a lick of fame, prostrate at my feet with their sweaty headshots as if I am the one to save them, as if they are worth saving.
What does a melon dream about as it bathes in tendrils of rainwater, wishing to be invisible?
