I loaded the last spoon into the dishwasher when I heard her coming down the steps. “At last, the tiny dictator sleeps!” she beamed with her hands in the air like a victorious… Read more »
A calm overcame me, a serenity that kneeling before God in a little temple on the hills brings. His eyes were pools of cool water to a thirsty traveler walking through the desert. His sweaty, tanned skin probably tasted like sea-salt chocolate truffles.
As she neared the bazaar, the brightness almost fooled her into happy thoughts. She could smell the warm notes of cardamom and incense mixed with the acrid stench of moonshine from the bordello.
A stacked lunch box as tall as the mound of files is waiting, both jostling for his attention. I say a little prayer for the person whose paperwork is in the file at the very bottom. The lunch box always gets precedence over the files.
Somewhere in this fluid timeline that I live in, lucid dreams flow. I don’t know where one ends and the other begins. I dream of my past life, my life before captivity. It feels like someone is briskly cleaning that slate, but I try and hang on to whatever memory I can.
A white stick camouflaged against the white marble. Two blue parallel lines stared back at her from a small oval window on it. The lifeless stick was the harbinger of the life growing within her.
I remember the days when Mama sang this to me, only to me. My throat was tight when I heard her singing the same song to Alfie, my little brother. He appeared unexpectedly after Mama and Dad went to the hospital one day. I was dropped off at Gram’s place. Her house smelled like naphthalene balls and Nilla wafers.
Live in the studio today is the two time Milkie winner for being the ‘Most Innovative Creator’. He is the author of the intergalactic bestseller “How to Create new Life Forms” and he has been crowned ‘Spacetastic Superstar of the Current Orbit” by Andromeda Magazine,
There’s an anger, a restlessness about you. You’re carrying scars from your childhood, perhaps. I see you in pigtails laying flowers on your mother’s grave on a winter morning. You’re wondering to yourself why Dad is crying and where Mom went. Or did your dad leave you when you were a child? Mom cried every time you asked her when dad would be back and you didn’t know why.
She first felt a low ringing in her ears when Esmeralda made an entrance with her goat, Djali. Was it the magic of Hugo’s writing or the light summer breeze playing with the wind chimes? So strange!