Fairy tale tropes for a midwestern gothic are tantalizingly familiar, and when I think of home I see them all, their archetypes and allegories, characters we connect with in a malaise not beyond a garden wall, but right here, with us— in a place of enervated belief and heuristic magic.
The Universe has given us a Martian ℞ — taken once per night, preferably with lots of water, and we still have half a bottle left to swallow. Consider another way to fight, friends.
No one is awake but me, no one heard me scream, and something is still in the room, but it's fading, and it was just a dream, and they aren't real, and nothing is going to hurt me.
Six tiny stories for October 3rd: On October 3rd, he asked me what day it was. “What day is it?” he asked. “It’s October 3rd,” I said. …
“In a certain light, wouldn’t nuclear war be exciting?” he said. There I was, on what would turn out to be the middle of a long string of Scruff dates that would lead nowhere but a weekday drinking habit. He was in the Navy, maybe an officer if I remember correctly (which, I probably don’t).