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… it is a story Mummy likes to tell again and again, and I think she will continue to tell it till time itself comes to an end.
Go out with your friends. Drink. Play billiards. Smoke a joint. Smoke many joints. In your newfound exuberance try ecstasy, acid, shrooms, whatever you can. What’s the harm?
February is when jacarandas bloom in Bangalore, carpeting the edges of streets purple like an extravagance of confetti.
They didn’t let me see the body. My father dragged the crackling blue plastic through early November snow. My stomach knotted.
The heady fermented smell of guava filled the room as Amalia’s mother turned off the blender, tasted the peachy-pink mixture, and added more sugar.
We will give the name chronotope (literally ‘time space’) to the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature.
“I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. —Sylvia Plath, “Morning Song”
Autumn snakes through the suburbs, claiming one tree after another. It sheds a skin of dead leaves.
label me all you want, but i’m an easy, logical man of faith nonetheless.
Regnauld was somewhere further up towards the transept, turned toward the statuary of the chapel of Sainte Thérèse.
campfire crackles, spits sparks into black sky, crackle like old woman laughter.
Light reflects and refracts along the mirrorball, strawberry laserbeams spilling into a smoke-machine sea, and as one fleshbug crests the next wave, our eyes fix….
“I’m not an actress. Hello out there—” rapping my knuckles on my head “—anybody listening? I dropped out of acting school. Can you hear me?”
Feeling her press her body up against mine is better than lying on the kitchen floor alone.