There is no such thing as old water, but when I answered, “I’m as old as water,” my son’s eyes grew wide. He says that because water cycles, it’s all super old. (fiction)
Tag: Fiction
it’s still spring in Rome, a perennial incitement to live. We meet in Piazza Cavour, me with my selfish FFP3 mask, Luisa with her altruistic blue cloth one.
(fiction)
California has weathered him with sun and heat. Michigan has begun to change me, too. We’re two birds . . . both singing variations of the same song.
(fiction)
The rose bushes lining the sidewalk leading to the front steps appeared like sentinels at the Mughal court, waiting for a decry from the Indian parent at the parapet.
(fiction)
I look to the nearby hill, past her and the highway, and watch it blacken. Its lines are clean and honest.
(fiction)
content warning: discussion about suicidal events and ideation.
(fiction)
I wanted to shout, but my tongue felt like the army slept on it. I wish I had a bittersweet Lick-M-Aid.
(fiction)
I’ve never liked American reality TV because there’s so much hyperbole, yelling and arguing that reminds me of my childhood, that cramped home, the screaming matches, the constant fighting over money.
(fiction)
Moving beaters hacked and coughed like emphysema patients.
(fiction)
The space between the woman and the art flattened until she felt she was the art.
(fiction)
