He wakes to the room spinning, a full bladder, and the scent of lavender.
When asked what room they wanted—seaside, garden view, “How about a view of the mountains? Very popular, the mountains.
I had the ring. All I had to do was stand there and put it on Deb’s finger. But when the day finally came, I knew I wasn’t ready.
None of the women could recall when the lobster first appeared, his large claws clacking against the floor as he folded his laundry along with the rest of them.
I keep waiting for good news. But no one calls. No one knocks on the door. Maybe tomorrow.
She’s Flor de Caña, simple syrup, and freshly squeezed limes. I’m American moonshine and RumChata.
Nick Pearson loved his smart house. At his command the smart-fridge checked the ingredients on its shelves and suggested three dinners for this evening.
The girl who eats lightbulbs, she sits alone in the bus shelter with the red velvet hatbox full of the feathers she’s rescued, the white and the silken, pure from the dirt of sidewalks and showgrounds.
I’d like to say a horse walks into the bar, but it’s really only a guy in a horse costume. Still, it’s not something you see every day, or every night, even on Halloween, which it isn’t.
You call it a honeymoon. The right rear passenger window of our car is broken out. We’ve covered it with plastic wrap. I hear it rustle as you drive.
Straightening the place settings and adjusting chairs is not enough to occupy her distracted mind.
Fly to Costa Rica on a one-way ticket. Don’t think about the reasons you’re leaving, not now as your city shrinks beneath you. Now, you are a free bird.
I remember the warm scent of pine needles, white pine, sienna golden and fragrant thick on the ground, that warm wood held in its air the promise of wreaths and garlands and snow.
Uncle Astor had a wedding cake farm. Aunt Lula was against it at first. Folks don’t want a cake from out of the ground, she said. But Uncle Astor proved her wrong.
There’s a darkness growing in her stomach. The windows remind her of her imperfect dimensions, she has no business being spectacular like the ocean ahead of her.
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.
In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks