They scooped off the wrong tit. Then they scooped off the right tit, which was the really wrong one, lumpy as a fist.
Read MoreTed and Katie sit as far away from you and Amir as they can on the sectional. Ted looks uneasily at the baby on your lap. He’s like, is it gonna…? You smile and hold the baby out. Of course not, you reassure him. It’s just a baby. Here, try holding it. They cringe away. Fuck no, goes Ted.
Read MoreSometime before Christmas the mothers made a deal. No more sugar, the mothers said. No more pudding no more lemon cake no more chewing gum no more Coca Cola no more ice cream no more Fruit-by-the-Foot no more raised-glazed no more Pop Tarts no more maple syrup no more Captain Crunch.
Read MoreHere is a fact: at sixteen, I watched my father take our pictures off the walls and clothes from their drawers as he packed up my brother and sister and took them away from our home in Jamaica.
Read MoreThat time my dad took me camping by the Eel River at the Fortuna KOA. As we lay under the stars with the fire dying, he told me people eat spiders in their sleep—hundreds in a lifetime.
Read MoreMinutes after my feet touched moon dust, your voice creaked in the video message.
“The virus wins,” you chuckled in that half-slanted way you did when nothing was funny. Jaundice yellow laced its way across your cheeks.
Read MoreAfter the weather turned, so did we. For many, the end of fog led to the end of patience. Though we’d heard the cool grey city might become sun-bleached as Seville by the end of the century, someday had arrived sooner than anyone predicted.
Read MoreIt’s very late, the policeman insists, for a woman and a girl. His flashlight drills into our car.
Read MorePrevious Sightings:
12 July 2022, Miracle Beach
Hugo Garcia went to Miracle Beach early in the morning. He wanted to beat the crowds. As he
bent to examine a dead crab, he heard a splash
You do not carry the dead through the front door of a house. Or else, more bodies will follow. So the bricklayers are here, sitting on the raised flower beds my mother painstakingly tends every morning.
Read MoreJune, always rain. Always ants after it rains. Always beetles smacking against the window and stink bugs polluting the air no matter the weather.
Read MoreThe house is yellow but used to be green. You can see the remnants of green when you walk up the porch steps and put your key in the lock, but of course you don’t need a key because you never lock it, none of you do,
Read MoreThe day Yumi got her eighth piercing—a semicolon on her left eyebrow—her mother pulled her into the kitchen and gave her an ultimatum.
Read MoreHe used to see his daughter, Maya, each Saturday. Her mother would drive her to his condo early in the morning, and he would have to be awake because the doorbell never woke him.
Read MoreHere is the father and here is the son and here is the midnight emergency room. If there was a mother she would be here too, but there is no mother, not anymore, just the father with the liminal-spacy eyes and the boy with the fluorescent mouth, a fractured glowstick dangling on a string around his neck.
Read MoreTwo giant men came in and asked for quarts of strawberry. My hands were split from constant washing, from the soaped rag I used to wipe down counters. I opened the freezer.
Read MoreMy heart is the small brown rabbit. We can recognize it from the other rabbits by the way it shivers, which I imagine is an indication of my anxiety. The hutch is large and made entirely of glass. The rabbits hop back and forth. They stare, unblinking.
Read MoreCarrie has your left breast clenched in her hands. You want to ask her to be gentler, but how much more vulnerable can she expect you to be?
Read Moreto sanctify our spaghetti with this many ungodly packets of sugar, dressing our noodles in a wet bed of banana ketchup, Eden cheese, and hot dog chunks that we watch you slurp in the backseat at 6am, because breakfast is God, and you will never have a meal so generous.
Read MoreBernadette’s husband stands over a mound of dark, wet dirt. In one hand, a trowel, in the other, a weathered copy of Gardening West of the Cascades they had found at the bins last winter. It’s bloated with water, the plastic edge of the cover curling away from the paper backing.
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