I have a limited capacity for empathy. My psychologist told me that, with an expression on his face that I did not and choose not to understand.
“Don’t eat that”, said the Queen, slapping the King’s hand with a wooden spoon. He yelped. Bitch be cray with her spoon. Continue reading
“A priest blessed me,” he said to her over a basket of first-date skinny fries at GBK. He leaned in a little closer. “He blessed me … down there.” Continue reading
The forest was forbidden, but she was the fairest of them all, and if that had taught her anything at all over the years, it was that nothing stayed forbidden for very long. Continue reading
Burning butter. I sniff again. Yes, absolutely. Sweet and rich, but with a black vein of smoke. This smell means nothing to me. I’m sure of it. Then why do I know exactly what it is, without hesitation? The burning of butter carries no significance for me, there is no connective tissue, no memory comes, immediate, borne on wings. Then why is there a horrible chill in my collarbone, in my knuckles? Continue reading