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Fiction
On a lot of things
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No one knew where the song started from, and no one could ever know. Not even the person who had started it.
Silence the voice of this stormy wind
and give me peace
Peace that more pleasantly calls
than a lover's whisper on her lover's ear.
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I used to live on the rooftops. We all did. The seven of us.
I guess we wanted something of our own, and up there we had Whole Cities, whole skylines. Those views. To anyone else we were, seven silhouettes on a vertical horizon. We stood on that which shadowed the concrete world of fused days below us.
Wednesday
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She watches him browsing the gallery, snapping hors d’oeuvres off the plates, hungrily swallowing food and washing it down with cheap wine that the gallery owner generously offers to everyone. She bumps into him. He apologizes. She laughs at his awkward gestures and sincere apology. She studies his pale young face, shy eyes and scruffy long hair. He is different.
That Which was Not Ainhum
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He woke up to the persistent pinching pain that seemed to come from the ends of his left hand. He opened his eyes, without moving another muscle, and looked down the length of his arm that ran below his head. The light came in from the window, in splendid whiteness and there was red at the horizon.
And One Last Celebration
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The alarm was so loud. I set it at max volume because I was convinced that I would sleep through its beeping and miss my plane. I have never been able to sleep through an alarm before, but I figured that I was in a new phase of life, starting college and all, and if I was going to do something for the first time now would be when. My roommate moaned and shrunk under her foamy comforter.
Paris, France
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I dropped my book down onto my chest when Julie came into the bedroom. She was wearing a pair of white knickers and nothing else. ‘How was it there today?’ I asked her as she climbed into bed beside me.
