In less than a second your entire head could explode and just about every thought or feeling you had would be rendered almost completely insignificant. Your skull’s circumference, just a broom sweep of ashes.
“It’s red and white, of course,’’ you answered. “Or maybe just red, and the white holds the red bits together,’’ you added, just in case.
The chains of Qalixy’s swing squeaked as she turned to you.
“No, no, the color of peppermint is actually purple,’’ she said.
Speak to someone. Give only your first name. Always give only your first name. Access your mental calendar. Try to count backwards to the relevant date.
I never thought I’d meet her. Nothing more than a voice, her story was a fluid myth.
Every time I close my eyes, I hear it again. What haunts me isn’t the chainsaw shriek of the slicer; it’s how quick it all was.
Her new thing is black. I will always be in mourning until the women of the world are free.
We’re pleased to announce our nominations for Best Small Fictions 2018 to be judged by Aimee Bender.
Like a great many writers under the age of forty, I’m an adjunct professor applying, vying, praying for the tenure track. Ours is a generation of indentured scholars.