As the plane began to taxi, the first line of the comic Riri Williams: Ironheart #1 danced in my mind: “I was never meant to fly.”
I feel what I feel, and I cry in the shower with a beer, but the week before I turned thirty, I felt nothing.
“A smell of burning flesh fills the theatre. I was expecting the smell of blood—its rich, metallic, almost bitter-tasting organic scent.”
“Someday we’d get jobs in Manhattan and have the freedom to do whatever we wanted.”