Dantiel W. Moniz
Even in sleep, Margot projected warning: Do not touch me.
Brenner had started to dread the searches, maybe more than the inmates.
We are constantly searching for something to hold on to, the critics surmise; in the absence of meaning, we shape patterns out of pure chaos.
Those were the days. Days when her mother called and asked why she would do these things to herself in public for white people.
The pig was gone. In its place stood a naked man with shackles on his wrists and ankles, head thrown back and mouth wide open.
Too fast for her to restrain it, a sound escaped the wife—a sound so low and guttural the husband hunched over, his hand sliding along the back of her chair.
Were they divided? Only in the cat’s eyes, because of his sense of entitlement and first place.
It hadn’t started that way, although there were signs. Were there signs?
Weed smokers always have a plan–the fuzzier the better.
Turning from the prologue to the first chapter, I was surprised, given the author’s disdain for literature, to find all the trappings of a novel.
It’s not that I have anything against my husband. It’s good for a banker to act like a banker, isn’t it?
By the end of the first month, everyone in our section could not only define but spell logorrheic. Pleonastic. Periphrastic.
Algiers, city bursting in the sun, sticky in its shades of gray, living at the mercy of its moods–no, her moods, which echo mine.
Karen E. Bender
The stranger beside me texted with a manic quality that was almost sexual in its focus, until she saw the smiling flight attendant walk by again, at which time she placed her phone facedown on her leg.
She wasn’t musical. But she shook, just a little, at the ascending and descending notes–like armies, she thought.
He also says that how I look is like how all people used to look before we left Pangea, or wherever.
It is said that seeing color in dreams is a sign of exhausted nerves.
“Isi, it’s memories. The past. It carries you backward but also forward, but only so far. It’s me in you. The chocolate will help.”
Whatever you do, don’t be what you are.
Was this what ordinary life would be like?
“Nobody hates money,” my American father always said. An undeniable fact, all over the world, but he had a way of saying it that sounded smug.
The South was the place to fix people. You had a cough, you went south. Your heart was giving you problems? South. A twisted testicle? South.
Had he noticed all this strangeness? she said, as she poured out the tea. Had he even noticed?
Just listen to me, please, no matter how I seem to skip through time and subject matter. I’ll talk about your past, specific memories you thought were yours alone.
She jots down some keywords on a sheet of paper: Identity, pride. Aesthetics. Information.
Over the years, the photo had become Amirzadeh family legend. They had all seen it once or twice, but despite attic searches and calls to Iran, no one could find a copy.
They had “bonded,” as they liked to say of themselves, using air quotes when they said it.