Contrast

Take a cut shot from the dour face of Senator Joseph McCarthy and move to an extended shot of a man driving a tractor on a farm in the daylight with fresh air in his lungs. A voiceover is telling viewers various details in an upbeat and genial tone. The contrast is...

Leaving Them

I wonder if he sees that your step is lighter when you cross the threshold of his front door and head out to your car, the same way you used to feel when your mother was sick and dying and you’d leave the nursing home after spending time with her, all that death and...

a start for day 1 prompt

This is a very rough start. Thanks, Sarah, for all the great prompts. You Don’t Say (yes, this is the title) you say tolerance we say ambulance you say maybe we deserve it we say we are going to a party we are being tolerated by you you are Winnie the Pooh your...

In Black and White

Donna Reed and June Cleaver sit in Donna’s kitchen having coffee. June is chain-smoking Camels, unfiltered. “This role-model crap is killing me,” says Donna. “I never even wanted children,” says June. “Every morning it’s the same thing. The phone rings, and I sweep...

I want it all of the time

Another night of ear plugged slumber. Everything is like a newborn baby ready to burst, a fraction of a fractor on the whoknowswhat pipeline. Drilling for oil. Jack hammers. The way you snore like an imperceptible longing. The meal last night sent me to the edge and...

Lady Macbeth at the Nail Salon

She tells you not to stare at the blood. You say that her hand is clean, a bit too clean, in fact, all papery and raw. You tell her she doesn’t have to soak her fingers, but she insists. Says she likes the way the bubbles tickle her nostrils, that the lemon scent...

Jilo

After running around Rio all day, you open the pub doors at five. The air-conditioning remote is in a different place every day. A game you play with the staff. You put it in this drawer. The thing lives here. You wonder if your Portuguese is wrong, right? They all...

On the Beach

On the Beach The last of them walk the beach as if they’ve become human kindling. Only the weak waves speak, faintly slapping in an injured muffle, as if they are thirty, too. Bloated, like a too-yellow sumo, the sun broods overhead, refusing to bat a lash. The...

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