A Full Boil
by Carol J. Arnold
Issue No. 163 ~ December, 2010
But this night, turnips were her concern, not Allison. “Carrots would be easy,” she grumbled to Warren, “but what could be more hateful than a turnip?”
But this night, turnips were her concern, not Allison. “Carrots would be easy,” she grumbled to Warren, “but what could be more hateful than a turnip?”
My doctor’s hands felt large, cold. The genius confirmed my blindness, and postulated on shock, senility, psychosis. He and my daughter went on to talk about the big freeze forecast.
I plant my feet on the wet-clam ribbing of the shower floor and point my nose towards the nozzle, enjoying the peroxide sting of the water as it collects in my sinuses and chokes me gently.
The scholar measured language and life as if there were only one way to the promised land, in a mind disciplined nearly military style.
They walked past those houses whose lots are so small the yards are mostly cars: whose tenants keep their tiny lawns with ancient blades exhibiting their age in the protesting swirls of clippings, in chipping-off paint.
While she prayed, Christa heard organ music - the sound of a hundred unrelated sounds forcibly coupled together. Behind shut eyelids she registered white blurry hums from the altar candles.
On a few late afternoons, she walks to where the earth ends, while her sister from the village that Safiyyah continues to feel taut in her bones watches over the boys, steams their rice [...]
“Just get rid of it,” she said. “All of it. Empty is always better. Better than this anyway.” This realtor gave Nora the number for Tillet’s Auction House. This realtor always had a pen. The number appeared in loops on the front of yet another …
The cherries of our cigarettes pulse like exit signs outside the front door, drive away flies.
They won’t ask realistic questions because they will be too shocked with style to fixate on content.