Tiny droplets of vapor collected inside the oxygen mask every time he exhaled. A thin layer of crust had formed on his eyelashes, like cobwebs in an abandoned house. Clear fluid dripped from an IV line in slow, almost hypnotic droplets. The room was quiet except for the staccato beeping of the heart monitor and the whooshing, Darth Vader-ish noise of the ventilator.
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 »
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.
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!
This is as disappointing as that time I put pencil shavings and a few leaves of basil in an empty matchbox and chanted some gibberish to turn it into gold coins.
Wipe your skillet clean with a dry towel. Water makes iron rust. Rusting isn’t good, for skillets or people.
I cannot focus on my books. The peeling green wallpaper, the holes in our heavily stained carpet and my mother’s tired eyes like two broken windows are all pictures of our rusting lives.
With their candyfloss pink tutus, their hair high in slick buns and their flesh-pink ballet shoes, they looked like elegant flamingos.
She flaps her wings and melts into the horizon. It’s freezing here. I can feel my blood coagulate. It probably looks like strawberry jello on the inside.