I was never much of a dancer.
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.
Imagine you've tried and failed to be a writer, and, your literary dreams up in smoke, you meet a nice man, and fall in love, and decide that if you aren't cut out to bring a unique work of art into the world, you might as well bring a unique human being into it.
That voice. Gravelly, loud, insistent. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” yelled over and over outside Mila’s building, six-thirty sharp, mornings and evenings.
An 18-wheeler carrying ten thousand kilos of watermelons had wrecked spectacularly, spilling its cargo from a height of two kilometers, near the peak of the Tu-Ashu mountain pass that looms over the cold northern provinces of Kyrgyzstan.
I'm awakened by a prodding wet dog nose again, because Princess or Precious or whatever has to piss and shit.
Carlton is huge. Even for a Great Pyrenees, known for their size and snowy fur like a fresh avalanche, he is colossal.