Flash Fiction: Clementines by Yunya Yang
He is dirty, germs on his hands, in the gaps of his nails, something invisible and harmful. Something that harms her.
He is dirty, germs on his hands, in the gaps of his nails, something invisible and harmful. Something that harms her.
I grew in oversized male T-shirts, wearing them as nightdresses, grew out of them, then in fake Nike hoodies, Levi’s sweaters, Tommy Hilfiger dresses.
I was in some kind of mood.
But desire leads to disappointment—always.
Call whoever’s home into the kitchen. Count heads.
What do we make of someone who forces us to question our beliefs?
The year Kelly’s mom died was the year she taught me Morse code.
My wife makes pie.
He thinks about adding more, but what else is there to say?
Bern. You know that name if you live around here.