Dear Mother, Bars on the window above throw shadows on the letter I’m writing that you may never receive. I cringe recalling you and me in a room like this on that night, the last time I saw you before I ran. But I shake it off, feel sun on my shoulders, remind myself that
This is the story of Frank. Frank was the type of man who had never heard of the word “merriment” and if he had at some point crossed paths with it, he would’ve likely guessed that it was only a term that should be used regarding two people who were considering the prospect of being
The man sat back and abandoned himself to the longest, pinkest and most cavernous yawn. It lasted as long as it took the girl to swallow the rest of the blueberry pie. She turned and looked out of the window and saw the cat. Miss Foofoo’s fat languid tail moved from side to side as
Martin Luther King unpacks his suitcase on an overnight train to Washington. As he reads over his speech, his eyes meet in the mirror, seeing the reflection of the sunny window, suddenly darkening. He examines himself once more, exhaling deeply, “There is a light at the end of this tunnel. Fifty-seven years from now, I
“Smile! Everyone’s waiting, young man.” She was mad at me again, and it was my fault— again. Camera in hand, she was trying to take a photo of the four of us and I wouldn’t, or couldn’t smile. My eyes were red and I felt self-conscious. Who wants a photo taken of themselves when they
So, I’m dead. I’ve read the obituaries, watched the funereal ceremony and pomp. Boo-fucking-hoo. They said nice things. I wasn’t nice. My legacy was tabloid trash, bin and bird cage liners. I amassed millions. I ran campaigns of fear and hatred, invaded the famous and the suffering, hacked phones, photographed private moments. Exploited secrets and
The red-tailed hawk fell with its quarry from the branches to the sidewalk, orange-breasted robins bouncing around the hawk like wasps. The robins’ nest fell. The hawk made a quick tearing motion at what it held in its talons. The frenzied robins hovered and pecked at the hawk in turns. The predator bounced to the
He wouldn’t hurt a fly. That’s how his neighbours would come to describe him in the police reports. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, they’d say, though the mosquito circling him as he argued in the kitchen was testing that theory for itself. He protested against the woman standing coolly before him. She utilised her verbal
“Bastard,” she said under her breath, “like you know how to shoot that thing.” It was a bad war. And all wars are bad. But it was before that whole 1967 thing. You know what I mean. This was way back when America was America. Criticizing the red, white, and blue simply wasn’t allowed. Okay,
She was curious. Peering inside the bottle she saw only darkness. A bottle of black. A long time had passed since morning; she had been a different person then. The past several hours had been a frantic chase, a furious worry, a frustration. She had been unsuccessful in all her endeavours, her day a spiralling
