The last time I struck a match, I lit the sky on fire. Up, up, up galloped the pillows of smoke, stacked on top of each other like scorched marshmallows.
Marisol scrolls through the appointment list and marks the scheduled patients who have checked in.
Shrieking wails, carried by the churning wind above, deafens me as the darkness steals my sight.
Wandering endless bleached earth.
I bought one bagel to share. It is still warm in the paper bag.
When I was a pre-teen my cousin would ask, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Dante likes to tell stories.
Marguerite had always feared dying in a fire.