Fiction

Katabatic winds sped out of the South Pole, obscuring the small figure who walked resolutely into them, her solitude as reckless as the winds. Ice crystals bit at her face.…

She ate warnings not to pet the dog or hammer nails so that she wouldn’t get ill or harm her baby’s spirit. Every superstition and piece of unsolicited advice resounded in her mouth.

This morning Aisha has a little soldier at her side. The numbers have shifted. Loyalties are liquid, flowing back and forth across familial lines.

I’ve been doing this a lot lately—trying to use my mind like a camera to record as many shots of him as I can.

The movies got it wrong; there was nothing exciting about the end of the world.

Mom faced the sky and sizzled a little longer.

She was the former-attorney, former stay-at-home mom, former manager of parental care, former person with a reason to awaken in the morning and help others.

For one brief golden moment, you were the main character of a story all your own.

She hadn’t thought through where the truth would leave them. She felt suddenly desperate not to lose her friend.

When I complained to my mother that Ganga yelled at me and treated my sister and me differently from my brother, my mother would say, “Let her be. She’s had a very unfortunate life…”

It would be difficult to write about anything else, even though the other day when I pushed the pram to the front garden, five military helicopters flew over my head . . .