Fiction
One otherwise pleasant evening at the asylum, I—a known murderess and recently declared Vice President of Ward G—escape through a partially opened, third-story window.
The surgeon came into the O.R. chewing gum. This was how we knew there’d be a problem. God have mercy, we mutter under our breaths…
I shit you not. Right in front of the elevator that spits you into our hospice, there is—get ready for this—a harpist. I mean, isn’t that like a teensy bit premature?
We’re not saying our boys are angels, … we’re just saying that we the mothers didn’t need to teach our boys not to rape.
It was a shame anyone had to go to Carville, a pity there was no cure, but Gar had been to war and knew how little fairness had to do with anything.
After he brushed his teeth, he raised his wings in the bathroom to examine his smoky gray underfeathers.
When the bell finally rings, waste no time. Grab your Kipling from the cubby and head straight to the front of the carpool line.
We were out of heroin and broke. Didn’t have pills. Nothing to drink or huff. “I’ve got a plan,” I said.
We hadn’t talked since we left our West Virginia homeplace over two hours ago, both of us teary-eyed