Month: November 2017

soft, thin

People are measured by thinness and thickness, hardness and softness. For the purpose of this story, only the soft, thin ones matter. All motion comes from below. Anything felt by someone is felt by everyone. Amy runs across the lawn, the lawn, thinks the reader, but it’s all girls running everywhere. OK, Amy is the protagonist, we think. But no. OK then I am the protagonist. But again, no. The protagonist is the...

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Whiteout

It was hard to pinpoint the exact day his words first clotted into one congealed mess of noise, like radio static. There was a time at the fag-end of July while insects buzzed fat across the weed-shattered concrete when she’d thought she could still identify some individual sounds, the ow in what might have been If that stupid mongrel cat of yours don’t stop yowling I’ll pull its chicken-shit head off; a hard ck that was probably a subset of I know you overcooked that fucking fill-ay steak to fuck with me, you stupid fucking whore. By the time...

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The Siren Choirs

When most people hear the sound of a siren, they think “Is it me they’re pulling over?” or “Gosh, that’s so annoying” or sometimes “I hope whoever’s in that ambulance is going to be okay.” What they don’t think about are the siren choirs. Inside each siren, there are dozens of tiny, very sad people. They stand organized by voice parts on a stage in a room that flashes red, or red and clear, or red and clear and blue. The room itself is only a few inches tall. The tiny singers wail together in studied harmony, their voices...

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