I bled through the crotch of my pants and the Wonder Woman underwear I bought two and a half years ago on sale at Target while eating chocolate chip cookies in my bed. I put my hand between my thighs to wipe away the blood and realized, that God had once again decided to not put the embryo of Jesus Junior in my womb, leaving me free to continue reading blog posts tagged atheism. --Em Ramser
Best When I saw the name on the taco bag, I hit a mailbox and tumbled off my bike. No tacos fell out, but I did scrape my knee. One knock, two knocks, three. My brand-new boyfriend has been hanging around here for months. He talks about her too much. Sometimes I think I know more about her than I know about him. But she doesn’t know me. Before I left, I looked around the apartment. Her velvet ottoman. Subtle art that looks expensive. Plants. Record player. Her designer clothes. Her band name in cursive script hanging on her wall. She has a Masters in art. Her parents supported her travels through Europe, where she learned to shape wire with a soldering iron. I hop on my bike and pedal away for my next delivery. I don’t think I want to be alive anymore. He met her before he met me. They went out on a few dates and it fizzled out. I wasn’t allowed to hear the details. And I wasn’t allowed to meet her. Today, the universe via Señor Gato’s Speedy Tacos decided to override that pol
“My father still reads the dictionary every day. He says your life depends on your power to master words.” — Arthur Scargill It’s a small word that destroys us. Four letters, one syllable, a hard word, a harsh word. A word as deadly as a stiletto, a word to wound. The word is daubed on the front door, a metre tall, bright red drips pooling to the floor like blood. SCAB Mam brings scalding water and some rags, and we try to wipe it away before Da gets home, but the word has been gouged into the wood; it remains, an indelible accusation. Across the street a couple of men sitting on the stoop watch us. We can feel their hatred from here. It burns, our backs blacken and char as we try to remove the word. We’re not welcome in this village now. SCAB Da’s a self-taught man, an auto-didact. At home he’s never without a book, eating knowledge like a starving man, the library his magic porridge pot, his source of infinite nourishment. In another time, in a different family, Da wouldn’t be a p
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