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The surgery is an aortic something-or-other—you don’t really bother to listen. You don’t need some surgeon barely out of pull-ups to tell you your heart hasn’t worked right since Sam died. They put you under for it, and isn’t that a wonder: to sleep without dreaming. Or if you do, the propofol makes you forget, and that’s almost as good.
My head. Let’s start with my hair, more specifically, follicle by follicle. Brown in color to match my eyes; curly like traps—I’m Black—see it now. My hair lies fluffy on my head, like a good wig for the wrong owner. Like something too precious for me to have.
Honey, the spirits are here with us tonight and they are deeply disappointed. [audience laughter] Momma, do you not own a mirror? Did you think you looked cute when you walked out of your house tonight? My brother, I’m so sorry for your loss. Losses.
Krungthep means “The City of Gods.” A much more charming name than the bawdy Bangkok that foreigners joke about. But to Somsak, it is the city of ghosts. He drives his taxi slowly along through the glittering blocks of shopping malls, the neon signs of Yaowarat restaurants.
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by Kristina Ten
Hannah’s first impression of Colden Hills Music Camp is that, for a place with “hills” and “music” right in the name, it’s too flat and way, way too quiet, and the one thing she initially thinks must be a weird rustic flute propped up against the side of the welcome cabin turns out to be just an extra-straight stick.
Used to be, you’d buy paper offerings and burn them to provide for your ancestors. Spirit money ensured they were taken care of in the underworld and wouldn’t have to roam the pitted streets of the afterlife suffering from starvation or homelessness. In this way, you could help your late loved ones avoid the terrible fate of becoming hungry ghosts.
The first and last time Calvin asks me about ghosts is on our fourth date. He wears green because I told him it was my favorite color. His hair is freshly cut, and his jaw still bleeding from a hurried shave. I smile at these small things he’s placing before me as an offering.
by Ben Peek
For such an infamous book, the original edition Dévorer is decidedly ordinary. It is a small, clothbound book, written in French. It is one hundred and forty-seven pages long. It was privately printed by its author, Edgar Addison, in the final years of his life.
by Lindz McLeod
This woman—walking alone, at night—is going to be killed. Here I go again. Watch my finger. See how the passive voice takes you by the hand? See how it leads you to understand the object and the verb? The trouble is, it leaves out the deliverer of the sentence.
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ADVERT: Morsels by Abe Moss / Meeting the family is scary. Surviving them is a NIGHTMARE.[/caption]Advertisement
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