I started collecting secrets when I was six.
A lap full of pulled threads piled up looking like spiraling incense ash, something to read your fortune in.
All those appendixes floating in jars on their bedside tables like grotesque lava lamps.
HOW I disappeared was up to me.
All my life, everything had happened with the beginning wrapped in the shroud of its own end.
This was the difference for a mother, every goddamn thing reminded you of your children.
Bad cries were things she hid. They happened in the Pontiac.
She can’t do it; she understands that clear as day. She only just met the man—what, an hour ago?—and she’s not sure he even knows her name.
The first time I see the UFO is via a 10-second video on twitter.
This story took twenty years to write. At the end a diver goes missing. If you want to stop now, that’s about it.