Outside the sky is autumn dolphin blue. I let the salt slick my lashes when my mother isn’t looking. It isn’t flamingo season yet but I feel them coming down the rift and it saddens.
There is one go-getter living amongst a collection of sticks-in-the mud. The sticks-in-the-mud are retired sea captains who selected the small two-mile by three-mile dollop of an island in our archipelago as their resting home. They have built stately manors and...
On the Island of hair—or the Hairy Island as it is otherwise known—visitors find their hair follicles unusually active. Hair sprouts from areas usually devoid of hair.
As a result of the geological makeup of Loaf Island most of the sand is darker in hue and, as a result, it is very difficult to find clear glass on the island—this must be imported.
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.
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.
Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks