Just a week before, when his father could still speak, he recalled the swallows returning to San Juan de Capistrano, just down the coast.
At first the creatures took small trinkets Lawrence had no desire to keep. He watched from his bed, patchwork quilt pulled up to his throat.
His fur was lush, his breath moist. I told myself to grab the knife. He inhaled. His ribs meshed with mine. I told myself: Not yet.
In truth, he driver was distracted, as all of us are sometimes, and after A passed by, he advanced into the intersection at speed without a thought.
Behind her stalked a small girl in a gi, her hands out in claws, to show her all the moves she’d learned, going for the throat and the weak places.
The gates had names. Karusell. The Steilhong. The Bruckenschuss. Alte Schien. Seilampsprung. Next, the Zielsprung. Then, turning right, he caught the mountain. The right knee dead against the ice. That was where it was supposed to be. The left ski, not, it was catching a groove, and started to slide towards the right one.
You loomed above me in bed and I saw it, too late to ask—the inky name engraved on your bicep. Lucille.
He first saw the band in ‘79 when you were negative ten years old.
“If a man looks to have been drinking, steer clear of em, Jenner. You hear?” Auntie’s eyes were sharp and clear. I had never seen them any other way. […]
The sun is not the jealous type. He doesn’t feel the need to be, and why would he? He warms us and gives us light; he makes things grow. Look […]