She likes to commemorate bad situations with tattoos. This time it was an ambigram on her wrist that reads “I’m fine” or “Save me” depending on how you look at it.
Nina finds her six-year-old twins in a tangle of skinny limbs on the same bed. Today, they’ll go into separate classrooms.
He’d been under the stairs for years, forgotten and neglected. This wasn’t what his family had envisaged when they’d sold him.
No-one’s sure what going to happen next. Today, its ‘acids and bases’. They’ve dipped litmus paper into milk and ketchup and written down the results.
But the woman seems so nice. She reminds Jenny of her mother, and her mother always taught her to be polite to old people.
The boy with the glass eye was back. His third time that week. He popped his eye from its socket, twiddled it between fingers the way a magician would a coin.
My mother said she would haunt me. And she did. She haunted. She haunted in the floor.
The car—a black shadow—not there a second before, weaved drunkenly toward the mailbox, before eclipsing the end of their driveway, veering toward the other side of the road.
All their life together, his wife has denounced the gadgets he’s acquired. The pole that extends to sweep ceiling cobwebs: they own a ladder.
In February we got a new roommate, her name was Fiona.
Marilyn is in her office, on the floor, yoga mat spread beneath her, engaging her psoas.
The waist-high table is narrow as a cot in a child’s room, your arms dangling on either side, head cushioned in a soft hole fringed by a paper towel like a doily over a well.
You see him watching her – the dapper little boy dressed like a pre-school banker, in his navy blazer, a blue bow tie, and his blond hair combed smoothly to the side.
You’d been watching him sleep, his head resting on his arms at the table, but now he was unfolding himself like some sun-woken, hibernating creature.
Ben was back. Anew. Which was something of an oxymoron, but he was back dating again, and he was a new man.
Kate is not ‘imagining it’. There are small tufts of pale fluff on her neck, and no, it’s not ‘just a tissue in the washing machine’ as John suggests. There’s nothing drifting off his shirts, nothing clinging to Ella’s favourite black top, Josh’s Minecraft t-shirts. It’s more solid than tissue, just on her clothes. And only she can see it.
The old man fell asleep in his car, his nostrils pressed softly against the steering wheel, but the car kept going, because the old man’s foot was not asleep, was still pressing down hard, and later they would say, it’s not really his fault, he’s such an old man.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks
It’s been twenty minutes since the first bolt of lightning ripped a scar through the purple night sky. Since my mother said to swim in the rain ― it’s fun. Since her boyfriend Colin said he’d join us― to check we’re ok.