Here I was, this beaten woman trying to make sense of my life against the sense of the house. Did I run out of it? One or two times? Did I call 911 asking for pizza delivery hoping the operator was trained in this as the code? No I never did that.
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She drifts around the house with her ghost baby, singing lullabies and rocking the baby like it’s a basket of eggs.
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Bad things would still happen, she was sure—after all, people were hurt or worse on more planets than her own—but when they did, it wouldn’t be because of her. It wouldn’t be because of Chance.
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Why cotton?
Because that’s what it feels like. . .
And from the thousands of words that define us, not a single word has just one paternity. . .
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Maybe Keano’s electroceutical fed the neural concerto of Aanya’s break-up into larger networks of perspective. She couldn’t decide which was better: fixation or detachment?
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Shifu looks at the stream behind her compound, contaminated from the mines, thin and weak, and still thinks she can drink from it. She says freedom is flight. She says water is life. . .
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“That DNA test is just water cooler hype, babe,” she chides, “you know, like TikTok challenges”. . .
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After school, I’d head to the arcade first. That was my real home. I never got into games like Dad did, but I liked getting my hands in the machines, figuring out how they worked. . .
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Sometimes Alice dreams she’s wearing Jennifer’s face. . .
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