I was crescent-mooning lemons the winter afternoon that my hair fell out. It was mid-January, the cold season, and I had been headachy all morning. I suspected a virus blooming in me, influenza that I could rinse away with mugs of ginger tea, cinnamon, turmeric, cayenne.Read more →
To Charles Pear’s regret, Andre Dovenstock didn’t pass away. Despite the hard times, Mr. Dovenstock showed no sign of weakness or surrender, so Mr. Pear had to suppress his hope. He considered moving to another town, any place would do.Read more →
It starts in true black. Then the song comes in. It reminds me of something from The Shining. Old piano. The light fades up. A stereo plays, nineties Panasonic. A hand reaches in and turns the wrong knob.Read more →
We raised our eyes from where our children were playing in the sand and peered up through the branches of the tall pine. It was true, there was a boy shimmying along one of the tree’s narrow branches, at least twelve feet off the ground, the limb flexing under his weight. Read more →
As a ghost, you should be nimble. You should mosey, kick up your heels, do the boot-scootin’ boogie. Instead you can only float—you’re a sickly grey balloon, attached to my rapidly burning wrist. So nice of you to join me on Hapuna Beach, Dad.Read more →
I wear my Hawaiian shirt when I need to feel safe. No one can hate you when you’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt even when you’re asking them for change and they know it’s for a hit and you smell like you slept in your own puke, because you did. I only really have two shirts, mind you. The other one is denim with cut-off sleeves, which looks sharp, in my opinion, but people aren’t as friendly when I wear that one. I got the shit kicked out of me more than once when I was wearing it.
The sea. The sea. The sea exists. The sea exists symbolically.
As symbol the sea exists to stand for what’s radically unknown and unknowably radical. The sea exists as wide and deep expanse to plunge in into for forever, to never return from, or to return from as turned up, transformed, limp and salt sparkling, shore thing washed ashore for mourning. The sea exists as non-place, as space, as glimmering surface face to slide over incased in a craft skimming along on this surface only lonely for the next place.
I don’t remember the year, but we were drinking sherry. Violet, Cookie and I. Life is just the waiting in between the two or three interesting things that will happen to you. We were teenagers, waiting.
Cookie said, “My father has a liquor closet as big as a hot air balloon.”
We looked at each other. That changed everything.
Static sputtered and cracked across the fishbowl screen. A pixelated talk show flickered over and over again behind thick grey waves. A Spiderman comic was twisted in the covers of my bed. I went to bed with it every night but didn’t read it.
My mother blasted the radio so loud the walls shook. The weatherman said, Watch out, folks! Extremely dangerous heat conditions are expected for the rest of week. Keep young children and pets inside.
The setting sun scorched my eyes, but I kept watching him through my window. His name was Billy and he lived across the street. He was always in the same position, in the same clothes, leaning against the frame of his window.
Bea takes up quarters in the room that had evidently fallen victim to violent splashes of Pepto-Bismol-coloured paint. She was forced to drag her trunk and hatbox onto the bed with great effort, after her oaf of a brother-in-law stared blankly at her request for assistance.
“Who travels like this anymore anyways?” Sharon asks as she clunks a knuckle on the leather case that contains Bea’s possessions. Each piece had been wrapped delicately with layers of tissue and brown Kraft paper, tied with twine.
“The stipulation for my visit was no judgment be made on my way of life.” Bea removes her lace gloves—she’d had them made special for the trip—and folds them neatly in her hand.
“Hey, no judgment.” Sharon holds her hands up as though under arrest. “It’s just…” she scratches at residue built on the travel-weary case until it buckles underneath her fingernail. The action makes Bea’s stomach lurch. “It’s just weird.”