Donald hopped out of the taxi, the long flight still heavy in his ankles. “Keep it,” he mumbled handing over a hundred.
“Merry Christmas,” the driver said before skidding off down the oak-lined road.
In the street lamp’s yellow wash, Donald thought he could see his father-in-law’s frowning face in the the two-story Victorian’s facade – his white eyebrows in the eaves, his brick jaw resting squarely against the trimmed grass – and he was suddenly thankful he’d been delayed. Continue reading “Make up sex”
It is not simple line on a map, or a fence that pinches against our wispy plains like a monk’s belt.
No, our border is a wall: as high and thick as a mountain. It strangles, silences, mutes the cracks of truncheon on bone. No one knows what lays beyond; only that the clouds and birds that pass over head fly somewhere, and we cannot. Continue reading “Across the border”
The only way to get to Oma’s is to head west for two hours on the number 51 bus. Unless that is, you have a car. But junkies don’t own cars.
Rose descended into a street of broken lamps and boarded windows. A sheet of rain whipped against her face. She shrunk inside her red hoodie and stomped along the cracked footpath. This is the last time, I swear it. It was always the last time: last week was the last time, and the week before; but when the trust money came through each month, it drained her memory of promises like a borax flush, and somehow, ‘last’ always became ‘next’. Continue reading “The way to Oma’s”