When Lois calls her mother, her tongue is heavy and tastes bitter, as if she’d been sucking on a handful of pennies.
In the Porta-Potty outside of the Dodds Park soccer fields, Kaikou rested his forehead against the toilet seat.
The wind howled through the San Gabriel Mountains and pushed right up into every crack and crevice of the chilly old mapmaker’s house.
During my junior year of college, I was thumbing through a women’s magazine at the dentist’s office when I came across a love quiz containing the following question: “You know you’re in love with him because…”
Victoria once learned in a science class that no two things can ever really touch, that even when it looks or feels like two objects have made contact, there exists always an infinitesimally small space between their atoms, a molecular cushion of politeness or, as Victoria came to think of it, prudence.
“This type of thing doesn’t just happen overnight,” the man in the white coat told him as he shined a blinding light into his cornea, but Mirko was quite certain that’s exactly what had happened.
Young Lolly had a case of echolalia—though neither Gram nor Lolly knew the term back then nor knew it was a condition, an ailment of sorts.
The summer I started to live on my own, I bought a pig. I bought it off the side of the interstate, hours east of the city.
On the Fourth of July, 1999, my younger brother jumped off the kitchen counter and cracked his forehead against a claw-foot stool.