Works of fiction
I parked my car by the blue line. The yellow line meant no parking, so I knew better to keep away. I was looking forward to seeing Aunt Marsala for the first time in forever. Before jumping out of the car, I double-checked that all the windows were up. Beep Beep. I locked the car….
“Are you grieving?” “No,” I quizzically said. “You only talk about sad things.” How to tell her that I’m a requiem; an airless breath, a heartless ribcage, a misunderstood sonnet. I want to tell her about the times I’ve stared blank at the silver clouds up in the sky, never hearing a reply. So unable…
She remembers the times he rubbed it all in her face. Car payment, shopping sprees, fancy meals, his fancy place. Every argument led to one direction, “I’ve done so much for you; I’m the answer to your equation.” Repetitive words he said so often times, made her question decisions she made in her prime times….
Since she was eight years old, Sara has never lived in any country for more than three consecutive years. It is constant moving for her and her ambassador parents. She studied at many international schools, from London to Australia, and she speaks five languages: Italian, French, African, English, and now Spanish. Sara just moved to…
My feet up on a table, hands writing my life. Papers, sticky notes, cheap street art. All overlapping each other, hanging from a wall so plain and white. Receipts everywhere; months old, years old — what’s the point of holding on? Organizing them is futile, I long gave up. Paper towel wasted, not my doing….
The town is completely white. Cars, trees, power lines — everything is covered in white. I climb the couch by the double window and slide the curtains open. Kneeling on the couch, I cross my hands under my chin and watch the white matter as it falls from the sky. It doesn’t stop falling. No…