Today, the brand bag has been doing an excellent job of greeting the dust devils sneezing at their open front door. For no one blesses them.
She hides behind a fake and formless Gucci handbag. Today, the brand bag has been doing an excellent job of greeting the dust devils sneezing at their open front door. For no one blesses them. None of the bags. In fact, they only open their mouths to lick the floating particles without breathing them into their pockets. But they forget the seams, they always do.
Continue reading “Inspiration”
But if you look into his eyes, beside the reflection of light, you can see a tiny version of his stocky form running wildly towards his own tear ducts.
Habibi looks like the Final Boss. He walks the same streets with a desperate wretched look on his bright skin. But if you look into his eyes, beside the reflection of light, you can see a tiny version of his stocky form running wildly towards his own tear ducts. The persistent flicker of motion in the corners of his eyes makes passersby slant away from Habibi. Habibi — dressed in his black crop top and fuchsia hijab — stands in a plié, like a ballerina, and drags his bare feet across the broken cement sidewalk, slow and steady, spreading spilled gasoline for the ground to soak up.
Continue reading “Habibi Looks Like The Final Boss”
The air ignites for the third time on this night, burning sulfphur and floating brunfelsia petals.
Continue reading “Featherfoil”
“Omega Three for Baby Lard. It’s all good down here. Standing by, over.”
Hundreds of feet into the big sky. Eye-level with executive corner offices. Cat is perched on a single-seat sofa chair trapped in glass. Like the Pope.
Continue reading “7UP or ginger ale; Mountain Dew or bitter lemon”
The birds dance on the branches and the leaves clang. She estimates there to be over two-hundred of them, calling her attention to a message they have brought for her. A joke. Seemingly eternal in their tickles. Their joy replenishes her.
The sun sets over open dry grasslands.
Several miles from the eastern border sits a newly painted house. Mud-walled and bandaged with overgrown bamboo trees, blue gums, nandi flames, pine trees, acacias, jacarandas and bottle-brushes. Just short of twenty metres from the windows, they form a tangled perimeter. Branches overlap like patterns on a snowflake. The colors, greens and blues and browns, soften like wood shavings.
Continue reading “Birdsong”
There’s a planet near there painted in phosphorescent colors where debris breaks off in large chunks at first
She could understand the sentiment — offering to clasp a necklace behind a neck. Until her nails grew.
Her bedroom walls have pale blue scabs glistening in the paint from cotton-threaded backs leaning on them.
Continue reading “The Femme in Question”
A sudden lump of tears thickens his eyes like fruit jam.
A threatening cough rings out from the elderly man perched by the only window in the kennel-sized reception room. It is followed by a sneeze. The secretary can see the germ particles swimming excitedly for her lips. Rippling through the air with an aroma of sour meat. The smell had arrived with him, as she directed him to his seat. And now the mist approached her. Continue reading “Getting Warmer”