“It was one of those topsy-turvy Wednesday evenings in New York when one feels like they’ve fallen through a manhole and landed in New Amsterdam: when everything feels offputting and unusual in occurrence.”
There is a tiny man in her hair and he is screaming at me. “Hello there!” He is screaming. “Please remove me from this strand of hair!” He is screaming. “This is a terribly inconvenient place for me to be right now!” He is screaming.
Who would have given a damn about me if not for that box?
As punishment for Prometheus’ gift of fire, the gods gave me to men. They gave me to men. I was a poisoned gift. But the importance of a poisoned gift is the venom it bears, not the gift. The box, not Pandora.
Aries: The year will change like a woman in the dark like an angel inverting into the opposite of God and there are men who will not be able to help but break the skin of it with their feet, a metaphor an English major is already analyzing for a JP somewhere.
“He reached out again to the metal, which seemed to bend out towards him too, its soft surface embracing his hand once more. The chain rang out again in the cold, cutting wind, which swirled around him.”
The first stone was one I knew. Flaking and grey and dusty. A driveway stone – from my driveway. Who breaks a person’s dining room window with a stone from that same person’s driveway?
“Some guy I must’ve known threw his hand over the glass to block me. He mouthed something I couldn’t hear, as if we were underwater, and tapped his finger on the side of the glass. Someone’s phone flashlight blinded me as it attempted to illuminate what was in it. Someone screeched.”
