June 14, 2017 | Fiction
Michelle Lyn King
His new girlfriend makes things with her hands. You know. Things. Candle holders out of twigs. A mosaic picture frame out of broken up bits of CDs.
June 12, 2017 | Fiction
He's lying in bed thinking about his imaginary lover. He's not touching himself, he doesn't think about him when he does, only maybe in the very final moments.
I began my life in a trailer. A black and white shaky construction plunked on a corner some farmer had carved out of an old cow pasture. One silver maple with a rotten core clung to life. I watched the world outside through drafty windows and remember the shade slapping the sash when the wind picked up.
A lot of people had just given up. Other people had made survival plans. Schmitty and his folks were holing up in their basement with shotguns and rations. He asked if I wanted to join them as he was allowed to bring one friend.
"This isn't like going to Hershey Park, Schmitty," I told him, "I'm staying with my family."
Growing up I never saw road kill. / A government worker was paid / to take the bodies away / and nobody’s day was ruined by death.