First, two to five (never all, never none) of the ant’s legs fly off from its thorax and abdomen.
Holding onto something that burns her is a skill of will that will stay with her for decades, maybe her whole life. But she doesn’t know that yet.
I already know the order from the other night. A wrap, veggie. Fries on the side. The two gin and tonics I made disappear.
“After the prophet went away, they came for us.”
The child’s feet are dirty. “Yuck,” the mother says. “Look how dirty your feet are.” The mother remembers when the child’s feet were dipped in ink. His first steps into […]
This trip had been meant to repair us. Instead, the space between us had grown into a small, silent ghost.
I swore to never forget him, to talk to him often, to keep him in my heart. Those were the oaths of children and careless drunks.
Whites Arrival Hospital Light – AR101 Doctor’s Coat – AR102 Swaddle – AR103 Midnight Feed – AR104 Nonna’s Smile – AR105 First Year Burp Cloth – FY201 First Tooth […]
The first time he saw her she was standing across Lexington Avenue next to a soot-streaked snowbank. She was wearing purple mittens and a purple hat and a thigh-length camel’s […]
In Hangzhou, 200 miles away, he had seen big, new buildings. Or were they buildings new, big. Or buildings that equal new and big.