ONCE UPON A TIME, in the heady days of economic collapse, a number of French malcontents got together, christened themselves the Invisible Committee and wrote, ‘It is useless to wait – for a breakthrough, for the revolution, the nuclear apocalypse or a social movement. To go on waiting is madness. The catastrophe is not coming, it is here. We are already situated within the collapse of a civilisation. It is within this reality that we must choose sides.’
“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.
My genre, creative nonfiction, had relatively few students starting together each semester, the overall program wasn’t huge either, and this, coupled with frigid January weather in Maine that kept us all huddled together near fireplaces, meant a family-like atmosphere prevailed.
My mistake was thinking that would continue after graduation.
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.
By nature I tend to be an all or nothing sort of soul. Best to refrain from a glass of wine with dinner, because that may whet the appetite for a bottle.
Her new thing is black. I will always be in mourning until the women of the world are free.