I once mistook loving a story for loving a person.
Fiction
They were no longer comrades, but post-conflict combatants. The war is over, he said, a phrase he would keep repeating throughout the day without emotion. It’s over.
Today I heard five Shakespearean insults walking along the corridor, and if I hear one more, it will be a good day, an even day.
Random was what life did best, Bea thought. It conferred cancer on the virtuous, drunk drivers on the unsuspecting, it matched noble wives to unfinished men, wickedness to wealth, weakness to power.
The manager takes me into the back room to explain the company ethos and the role. Each neighborhood store should feel like just that, a neighborhood store, she says, reading from the brochure.
Beck didn’t believe in an afterlife, but he was starting to think that this was what people meant by ghosts. There was something there, he craned his mind toward it: something about ghosts.
You know, Lady, I ain’t trying to start nothing, but a bunch of people’s saying you’re the best thing breathing.
Pagination
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