They raise a flag in time with the rising sun as the squad takes aim. “What a pity,” they say. Not bothering to cover the sound of their words. “She was such a lovely thing.” Mato looks up and meets my eyes, which would be a sign of submission to these savages. My father walks over and takes my hand.
I know he’s showing me mercy, letting me know that even though I carry the child of a ‘wild man,’ he still stands by me. He’s offering me sympathy. Not for my loss, as we stand waiting for my husband’s death, but for the indignities I suffered having to live such a life with the tribe. My tribe.
I see only Mato’s face as I step in front of the firing squad.…
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Padraig, as Irish as any Joyce or Stephens, O’Nolan or Beckett, Behan or Heaney, or any saloonkeeper named Clancy, could no longer reliably distinguish the theme for Irish Spring soap from the theme for Lucky Charms cereal: somehow, the old Old Spice theme would intrude on the one and interweave with the other—maybe he did need to cut back on his consumption of Tullamore after all, or at least maybe stop cutting it with the Bushmills.
He’d not bathed or showered with Irish Spring in decades, had not managed as much as a spoonful of Lucky Charms since the age of nine, had never worn Old Spice at all, not even in high school, and had not owned a television set in over twenty years, but he had started his day with a dose of Tullamore, after scrambled eggs and toast.…
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bitch, he says.
stupid bitch,
reaching over the counter for my colleague
whilst his girlfriend stands behind him
looking bored.
at least, I assume she’s bored
under those big sunglasses.
they get their refund in the end.
it’s the quickest way to get rid of them.
it’s the only way:
a company
can’t accuse an individual
of inappropriate behaviour.
that would be fascism.
apparently.
I think.
anyway,
no – my shaken teary colleague
CANNOT have a break:
can’t she see how long the queue is now?
– Paul Tanner…
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Andre was worried about his wife. She had been up for weeks obsessing on the idea of having children. And not just any children, but children that were stolen from her: She was convinced that eighteen years ago her eggs had been harvested from her body and implanted unwittingly in another woman.
He paced the kitchen floor. “I’m worried our conversations the last few weeks haven’t been a good idea. Yes, I want children, but I never meant to make you sick. Somehow, it’s made you paranoid and now you’re refusing to take your meds.”
“But I already have children!” She took a sip of coffee from her mug.
He was overwhelmed with guilt. A month ago, he had raised the idea of having children. They were finally financially stable, and it seemed like the perfect time, with him being promoted to CEO of his company and Kyla, his wife, ready to take some time off from her very successful floristry business.…
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You always loved babies. Not to have but to see in the lobby or the mall or a restaurant. You’d bend over the carriage and look close, smiling wide into the tiny face. And You always loved getting them to respond, laugh, giggle, clutch your finger. The mothers, of course, ran the gamut—from tolerating your fawning to feeling uncomfortable about your close breathing on their child to beaming at the adoration that reflected on them.
I always waited, a little apart. Couldn’t deny the cuteness, miracle of tiny replication (or were we giant replications?), and usually the pleasant fragrance, even from my distance, of baby powder or lotion. But I was always very aware of the mother, usually impatient to get home, change the diaper, get supper on, put the kid in the tub, and finally grab a few moments for herself.…
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Ever since I was a child, the grass irritated my ankles. To combat this, I would wear socks when walking in the grass, leaving green stains on white cotton. Here the world looked safe. The sun was hot, striking my skin until it was a dark red. Blueberries crushed against the pads of my fingers. Their juice became stickier as the heat began to rise. I wanted to feel the grass beneath my feet. So I dumped the bucket of berries on the ground and started jumping on them. The berries became little sticky fireworks. My feet sunk deep into the berries. Grass began to grow between my toes, tangling around my ankles. Eventually roots took hold of my toes, and the grass wound up my wrists.…
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The sun sets lackadaisically like molasses on hot summer nights. Sometimes there is a soft breeze that pushes the pieces of trash across the parking lot, lightly scraping the pavement. The air burns like the cigarette butts pressed into the ground, and it chokes me sometimes. I am grateful for the dripping A/C unit beneath my window and the cool-but-not-cold water that drips from my sink. My landlord still hasn’t addressed these things and probably never will, but I am content with living like this.
There is a man that lives in the apartment complex right across from me and he never closes his windows. His walls are a maddening, insidious shade of red and I can see his tall, lanky figure washing dishes. If this was a Taylor Swift music video, I would hold up a sign that says, ‘You ok?’…
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