tonight all the versions of myself lay together on my twin size bed. one is vomiting over the metal railing, a snap of a girlfriend kissing someone else playing on repeat in their palm. one listens to our dad’s hand-curated phoebe bridgers playlist. one can’t stop eating, and one can’t eat at all, and one is somewhere in-between. one calls a friend about social studies. one calls a friend about ap history. one calls a friend and asks if they should switch their major to creative writing and five minutes later ends the call. one texts their brother. one hates their brother. one decides they don’t really mind their brother all that much. one hates their brother and curses him to hell. one is shopping on etsy for birthday gifts for their brother.…
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The door slammed shut and woke Mere. The sun was already setting. She’d slept for over an hour. Sleeping for two, she thought as she rubbed her eyes.
Patricio threw his coat across the couch. He rubbed his hands. “Cold out there. Low 40s and not even Turkey Day yet.” He reached under her blankets. “Warm in here.” He touched her neck.
Mere yiped and sat up. “Oh my God, Patricio. Knock it off.”
“Touchy.” He collapsed on to the couch.
Mere pulled her legs up to her chest, so he wouldn’t sit on her.
“Long day at work.” Patricio rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Ten-hour shift. A car accident. A heart attack. Quiet down at the casinos.” He reached for Mere’s hand. “What’d you do all day?”…
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The four boys stood on the concrete former pontoon outlined by the mountains or hills on the horizon. I couldn’t tell you which they were from my position on the beach. Surrounding them, sat at their feet, were other young men and women. But the four boys who stood tall above the rest seemed to be in a group of their own. While the others occasionally jumped into the sea that was garishly sprinkled with diamonds of the type you’d find decorating the cheap bags on Avenue Guy de Maupassant, the boys fought.
Though mainly just shadows and outlines in the heat of the midday sun, I could see a tall one, a fat one, a shorter one and a fourth of normal size for a 13 or 14 year old.…
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“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” the very, very old man said as he sat down across from me on the mid-day bus. “I remain balanced,” he said, “by wearing an equal number of rings on each hand.” He paused to let this information sink in. Then unsheathed his hands from his jacket pockets and, leaning in, rested them on my knees. I could only assume there were fingers underneath the mass of jewelry. “Go ahead and count them,” he said, “exactly the same number on each hand.” He was uncomfortably close to me, but his breath smelled like cough drops, which was somehow reassuring. “Go ahead.” He nodded at his hands that stayed heavy on my knees. The bus rattled on, over potholes around fast corners, and the very, very old man sat perfectly still.…
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I met a man fresh out of prison once. I was in a bar downtown round midnight. He walked in and ordered a scotch, then another. I didn’t say anything, but I could tell he wanted to talk. You don’t walk into a bar alone to avoid people.
He got to reminiscing before too long. At first he wasn’t talking to anybody in particular, then he started looking at me, then before too long I was the only one he saw.
He told me he’d been in prison five years, but not to worry because he was innocent. Most people inside are innocent, he said – except, of course, the ones that aren’t.
Most of what he said, though, had to do with wrists. He told me people never rub their wrists when the cuffs come off, when they’re thrown in the cells or leaving the system. …
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Lenny let another rock fly from his slingshot toward the ancient weeping willow just on the other side of the fence. A flurry of little songbirds took to the sky.
Lenny used to be fun, but now all he wanted to do was shoot things. Through the kitchen window, Maribel could see her mother with the coffee pot and Lenny’s mom holding up her cup. She wished they would hurry up.
“Aren’t you scared you’ll hit an angel?” Maribel asked. “I saw a picture in the paper of an angel that got shot by a hunter.”
Lenny lowered his shooting arm and turned to face her. “My dad said that picture was fake. And anyway, I’ve never seen an angel around here.” He scanned the yard looking for his next rock.…
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I see glittered carriages sprinkled through Central Park
being pulled by horses that remind me of the Midwest,
not the steroid-juiced, blender-bred racetrack specimens,
not the ponies that granddaughters of Fortune 500 CEOs
have grown out of, but something in between
Hell’s Kitchen and Times Square
in an alley repurposed as a stable
I can smell before I can see,
a single AC unit
jutting out the only window,
a stallion with his sun-stuffed
snout pressed against the cool air,
legs stomping in the mildest satisfaction
interrupted by the stablemen
who guide it back into a steamy prison,
and I hear my friend complain,
“They aren’t supposed to live like that,”
and only then do I consider
these obvious snippets of suffering.
– Dylan Tran…
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