Month: December 2017

Transhumanism

What the poets have taught us about the future is that the spaceships there will all be called “Ship,” and each one will have something quite a bit like a personality but nothing like a soul. Ship will care about you in only the most prophylactic sense of that word. You will not make the sentimental mistake of calling Ship a mother ship; or a nursery ship; or home. Ship will speak to you using precisely the same measure of ironic politeness with which a junior high school principle uses to maintain distance between themselves and former students met...

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Child Rearing

Sarah finally got around to eating the rest of her son, Andy—the scourge of the third grade girls and most athletic of the third grade boys (however athletic a kid can be at eight years old, although I guess some of them are nine in the third grade)—anyway, she finally finished Andy off, his feet being the only parts left, after like a week getting the rest of his body down, but in her defense she tried everything: baking, braising, battering, broiling; she even tried to sous vide portions of him, whatever it took, though, clearly, it took a...

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Last Minute Hugo

Hugo Snell is after my wife. There are photos of them on Facebook shooting shotguns off the deck of his guest house. He drinks Wild Turkey out of iced tea bottles and shakes my hand when we meet, saying “I heard you don’t like guns,” adding “Your wife is something else.” I am worried– but only so much. He takes naps in the middle of the day and aside from the Bluetooth in his ear, he is a luddite. We get phone calls in the middle of the night from him asking how to work the camera on his...

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Aisle Ten: First Aid

The sign on the door says they open at 8AM. Five more minutes. Five more minutes. Five more minutes. Been pacing out here for over an hour. I’m not alone. We avert our eyes and press down on our hearts and toe the concrete sidewalk littered with flattened carcasses of gum and cigarettes. We do this without talking. Empty nips of Fireball blaze from under planters of white pansies, their red eyes still angry from the night before. An open Dumpster festers out back; the shrieks of gulls give it away. A breeze bends an Almond Joy wrapper around...

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My Hair, or A Marriage

If I ever kill a man, my hair will give me away. Clotted to the wall, clumped with matter and biology on the floor, adhered to wet wounds and inside out organs. Or just resting peacefully atop the body, as if floated down from the head of an angel. My hair has been betraying me since I was born. Or, should I say, since it began its crawl past my ears and took its first steps below my chin. When it made me a girl. Though my body remained a boy’s, flat and straight as a cookie sheet, it...

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