Fiction

I had a kind of premonition, even before a word was said, that things were about to shift.

That so much night could exist within a city entranced me.

Unrelenting snow, bottomless drinks, unexpected acquaintances, and strange sights.

It’s weird how hitting the ground doesn’t really hurt.

I once mistook loving a story for loving a person.

At night she would try to dig her way out, and I would pull my stitches tighter, snipping off the tips of her fingers. 

Fiction is a more subtle and sophisticated revenge porn.

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.