"Everyone had questions like: how to sell weed or how to quit your job or how to rob a bank or how to get pregnant with twins or how to walk in high heels or how to swim or how to zest a lemon" -Why I'll Never Buy Another Peacock
Why I’ll Never Buy Another Peacock | Fiction Southeast
The Solution Center was one of those places that sold everything–though solutions were its specialty. The checkout line went single file out the center, past the parking lot, past the highway. Everyone had questions like: how to sell weed or how to quit your job or how to rob a bank or how to get pregnant with twins or how to walk in high heels or how to swim or how to zest a lemon or how to write a love song or how to silence a shotgun or how to amputate an arm or how to dance in the club or how to give a cat a pill. I was in line to ask how to tie a tie.
State Appointed Committee To Oversee The Obituary of Planet Earth and Its Inhabitants and Records | Monkeybicycle
Bursts of light pulsed in the distance from the conference room window because the sky was a back and forth of hollow-points and hell cannons and car keys and lit cigarettes and body language and crucifix and avocado pits and feral cats and hot coffee and Christmas trees and money shots and gut reactions and themselves—they were throwing themselves, too.
The Story of My Hair | PEN Center USA
I wore a wig. It never grew back the same after the war. As if it punished me. The bombers needed hair to make the plus signs in their bombsights. Mine was never dyed, never permed, perfect virgin-Blonde. My brother cut it. Sealed it in an envelope with my name, address, and social.
I wept when the mailman came for it like it was anything else. My civic duty. And I wept when the mailman returned with a Thank You from Truman.
The Living Room | Vol.1 Brooklyn
Dad has no idea he’s watching porn on the TV when I walk into the living room. It could be from experience, but I can tell this one only just began: co-eds still clothed, little dialogue, all body language. Our POV is the man’s POV. We scan her with his eyes, as if we’re supposed to be him. Close-ups of her lipstick and her pale skin and her clavicle, like we’re there, like we’re forensics, like we’re vampires looking for the artery. But dad sits through it – waiting for the scene to change. I think he thinks it’s some cheap horror flick.