“What normal life?” a third reporter asked. “Slum life?” But the government spokesman didn’t hear that question, or at least didn’t acknowledge that question. He had already turned towards his waiting black car and its open back door.
Others, as Ms. Wilson stated, considered it part of the story they wanted to tell for whatever their reasons were. To reveal the truth. To cleanse the past. To exact revenge. I don’t ask for a motive.
And to the enemies of the people out there, the terrorists, the Deep State, the illegals, those who contradict God and science, those who defile the name of our leader, you may think no one has witnessed you crimes, you may thought that you were safe while you cowardly watched others succumb to their fate...
“Why? Why do I want power? What good can come from controlling people? I suppose there is both a simple conclusion and a complex conclusion. To satisfy the feeble mind of a nonagenarian–”
My words went through the man like a pin through the skin of a balloon. He bounced off the tent’s canvas walls, the air whooshing out of him as he tried to outshout me. “I am famous and feared, and you are nothing,” he sputtered.
The customer’s face lit up with wonder. Ryan wrote the sentence down with a ballpoint pen on a small sheet of paper and autographed it. Using a wood hand stamp, he labeled his writing as Natural-Intelligence-generated work.
He bears the hallmark of the fugitive. It’s there in the eyes with their flatlined glaze, or in that slump under the kurta, yet there’s also something entitled marking him out from the other flatliners these streets specialise in.
Deborah had warned everyone that she would be out of touch given her schedule, but one night Vicki called and left a voice mail. Deborah figured her cash-strapped friend was looking for a place to stay.
I felt wild. Irresponsible. Like the old days. Like being hungover when everything felt loud and tilted. (I loved my hangovers.) Or fucking off in college. Any piece of writing was done the morning of, with my girlfriend trying to sleep while I typed out my play or whatever.
My martyrdom is near. Here, in the darkness underground, except for the device in my hand and the daylight above, I kneel in prayer. When I stop writing, I will have posted this message.
In the desert, death did not translate as tragedy or adage. Death was ordinary. Mendicant friars on donkeys trudged by his body without so much as a rosary prayer. Government lorries didn’t stop.
The girl remained on Fender’s mind for the rest of the week. Every time a customer, dark-eyed and caffeine deprived, shuffled in from the late winter darkness, carrying the scent of the dying season– dirty snow piles and stale road salt– a new question was planted in his head.
Despite the train racing toward Philadelphia, everything came to a halt for Alan. She made him feel twenty again. Her presence was intoxicating and confusing. What was he supposed to do with this surprise admiration?
"I can't help you, little one." Jimmy tears up a little himself now with the baby quiet around his finger. "Everybody'd be asking what you doing with a little brand new baby, Jimmy. They'd think I'd done something wrong...
On the evening of the International Workers’ Day in 1976, after returning to the station from his daily patrols, Ming received an official form called “Rooting permanently in the countryside and becoming a lifelong revolutionary.”
Maybe she wouldn’t even graduate from high school. She might become chronically ill because of it, incapable of attending or learning. Or Steve would die. Her father might die on her.
They lifted their skirts with precise fingers and really went to it, circling each other, laughing and snorting, the tall one and the short one. Their dance became wilder as they flung their arms this way and that.
“See if you understand this: my name is Calvin, everyone calls me Fish, but my father wrote his suicide note to Cyrano. Do you understand? Do you understand what I’m saying, that I am not, and never have been, a good son?”
Ethan remembered this girl in his sixth grade class - Sarah, or Sam or something. It didn’t matter now. He had asked her to the spring dance, and she turned him down. Ethan swore revenge.
There was a time when I could paint without panicking. There were days in which birds flocked to the bird bath, splashing riotously together, a flurry of red and dull feathers. As they waited their turn, some of the birds read Bibles in the shade of the angel fire tree.
In the Kingdom of Dragons, only half the families drive hybrids. Despite our outreach efforts, it’s been hard to overcome dragons’ attachment to their coal-fired SUVs. For some reason, that’s the only mode of transportation they trust to bring the sheep and cattle home for dinner.
“Hey Sandy, Margaret. Hi, Coreen,” she greeted cheerfully. Conversation came to a dead halt. Margaret shook her head, excused herself, and turned her back on her. The others wouldn’t look at her. A group of church women gave her the same reception.
Well, we had all these problems. They were ignorable at first, easily swatted away like a fly or at least something you could flip over from one TV channel to another. We held marches and protests with catchy names and cool accessories.
Brianna’s advertising firm, known in Trentwood, New Jersey simply as the Firm, had been chosen for a vast advertising campaign to redeem the reputation of white males. This meant that all the copy writers were competing to come up with a slogan...
When caught off guard it wasn’t uncommon for a camper to show resistance, fear sending their biological instincts into overdrive. But the stoic chaperones who could easily be spotted in their maroon jackets and gold whistles around their necks were trained for this.
She said there were two policemen downstairs who wanted to see me. I dressed quickly and went down. They were waiting for me in the living room, one, the younger of the two, was sat on the settee, the other was standing, looking out of the window, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.
Grace had decided it was time to go. Mere existence held no appeal. She and Geoffrey had discussed ‘the end’ many times and despaired at society’s obsession with longevity.
Crime lords, corrupt cops, hoodlums, and of course, the femme fatale --only a seasoned gumshoe will dodge every bullet, avoid each poisoned whiskey, ignore every lady’s pass.
Uninspired by a warren of small rooms, he slipped through an open casement window in the basement and hurtled west across the river then southward to the financial district where a large contingent of protestors was being kettled in by the forces of law and order.
Edgar aspired to being known as the go-to theatrical agent for oddballs. He represented the bit players, the scruffy walk-ons who deliver a line or two and then exit stage right. The acting profession being notoriously cruel and capricious, Edgar championed the brave souls who would never land a supporting role, much less a starring one, but who still sought the audition.
Bashar Jihad, the Palestinian driver, did not slow until two fresh IDF draftees were about to fire at him and his wife, Layla Jihad, who, her robe hiked up and her knees wide and suffering, lay on the back seat. Her unborn child was in breech position.
The next morning she worked out with tears streaming down her face. “A year you’ve been with me” she said. “You and I are in this together” she said. “You can’t go” she said. Then finally “Please don’t.”
At the self-checkout, he scanned the soup and paid with his credit card. Then he scanned the other items but rather than paying he cancelled the order. He packed the soup in one bag, the other expensive items in another and left the candy in the cart.
“Aw, cut the shit, Bob. You know what I’m driving at. But alright, I’ll quit beating about the bush. I think she’s got someone else and I think you know all about it. Has she got someone else?”
Behind another fence, the small boy is crying again. The bigger children are teasing him because he calls for his p-p-papa and his m-m-mama in his sleep, because he wets his thin mattress while he clings to his toy clown.
I wanted to stop and join the old Borrachos at their party, the one on the stoop. I wanted to, so badly, whatever cheap swill they had between them, whatever cheap tobacco in their hand rolled cigarettes, I wanted to stop and join them.
Pam knew she wasn’t real. The calm, effective yoga studio manager that other people saw was a front she put up, “Guru Baba’s right-hand woman.” No one knew about her missing pieces, or the pills in her purse, waiting in a small plastic case.
Things weren't the same as before, you didn't have to play nice anymore, you just played it loose, off the cuff. Any trouble and you could ad-lib. Bullshit was the new currency. He'd already had that in spades, so he figured he was ahead of the game.
I reckoned my twin brother was using a time machine when he died. He developed the thing at home, while on sabbatical from his job as a poetry professor.
I’m not copying the vocabulary words Miss Hiller squeaked out with her stub of white chalk. Instead, using my crayons, I’m drawing a picture of her inside the back cover of my phonics workbook. I’m going to name it “Hag-face Hiller, the Fourth-Grade Killer.”
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