Cinderella in Flames
René Bennett
I feel like God with dyspepsia. My soul is vibrating at ultra-high frequency. I want to leave my body. I want to throw up.
There’s makeup running down my face with sweat, but it somehow feels apt.
I feel like God with dyspepsia. My soul is vibrating at ultra-high frequency. I want to leave my body. I want to throw up.
There’s makeup running down my face with sweat, but it somehow feels apt.
Josephine Aycock’s boy, Jeremiah, was due to start middle school that autumn. In the sun-soaked months spanning summer break, she found herself praying for the thirteen year-old more than usual. He
Crush ten pills into a fine powder, then stir thoroughly in a glass of warm water. Put the glass in the freezer and let sit for twenty minutes. At this point, the mixture will have separated.
They all knew the drugs. But they hadn’t seen each other in years. The drugs were doing well. The drugs were doing fine. The drugs were good. The drugs were good to run into again. The drugs were taller, maybe? Or, stronger?
Waitresses circled the room like vultures. Sometimes I dreamt of laying down on the hot sand, my spine fusing to it, nerves sizzling, going blind from the light, my chest cavity ripped open while they pecked around my ribs—the waitresses, I mean—for whatever they could salvage, whatever was still good.
So I guess I’m an animal then, aren’t I? Why? Why was I born?
She sits in the grass in her special place and she does her meditation. It is the place she has carved out for herself in the world.
Relentless torrents of rain poured down that whole night, gently lulling me to sleep.
So what if I can’t cook? I can clean a crime scene then let you hate-fuck me after.
I keep trying not to say, I think about you all the time, I want to come for you, and I hang up without saying it, and then I call you later from my bed and I end up saying it all anyway.
Swallowing those pills at night was now like playing Russian roulette; the blues were, for the first time in many years, the leading cause of drug deaths in Scotland, overtaking even heroin.
Between long sucks of her Newport, Jessalyn told me she was still so angry at her best friend for missing her wedding that she’d mailed her a box of crickets.
Crickets? I said.
Dead crickets.
My mother always says it was my father’s fault I couldn’t get along with anyone.
Pontypridd
When I was born, they thought I was dead. My grandmother, who could neither read nor write, plunged me into a tub of cold water. I got started after that.
My father was a coal miner
A tired black horse lies down in a field, and doesn’t get up again.
It wasn’t nice to call her eyes empty, Sondy supposed. Guileless, most people would say. Furtive, is probably what they’d call Sondy’s eyes.
Your Uber arrives and now you remember you’re not wearing any underwear.
“Girls like porn too,” she said. “Don’t be sexist.”
I go into parties wearing a long-sleeve t-shirt that says Bonjour on the front and Au
Revoir on the back, eating candy cigarettes.
That comment got 55 upvotes. I downvoted it. I don’t have friends anymore
Getting chemical poisoning together seemed romantic, the closest you could come to being entombed, Pompeii-style, in each other’s arms.
all these changes in my life were made without my consent
This place looks haunted as shit.
Is this new relationship self-sabotage in disguise, or is it the cure?
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