Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. She gazed upwards towards the empty whiteness where the sky used to be. Outside, the streets were filled with people doing the same. Cars had screeched to a halt. Things were dropped, and dog leashes let go of.
The sun, the moon, the stars, the clouds - nothing was there. Only, they weren't looking just at the nothingness. All eyes had narrowed to the one dead pixel. Hanging in the sky, like a tiny afterglow of a tiny what-used-to-be.
Now, supposedly, if I start out a hundred meters ahead of Achilles, and Achilles is travelling five times faster than me, when he has covered that hundred meters, I will nevertheless have travelled twenty. And when he travels twenty, I will have travelled four. And when he travels that four, I will have traveled .8 meters, and so on and so forth, such that Achilles will never reach me. I win.
But Zeno, the cur, says that, eventually, Achilles overlaps me. "We know it from experience," he tells us. God damn experience! I know that if Achilles is continually arriving...
My mother was not svelte. She spent her life washing clothes, lifting children, and hauling sacks of potato and flour from the market to our small apartment in Flushing. My father frequently looked at the Sears catalog, commenting on the models within. "Why don't you look more like this one?" he would ask, as though the answer weren't obvious. My father did not look like Marlon Brando (young), and my mother did not look like Marlene Dietrich. Yet somehow, I never heard my mother ask my father why he didn't look like this one. Long suffering, some might say.
She...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.
She was crouched over an open laptop, her scowl lit up by the screen as she stabbed cmd+R repeatedly. The browser blinked frantically as it reloaded the same white text area on the same light blue background over and over and over again.
"It's past midnight in the U.S.," she muttered. "Why hasn't the prompt been updated yet?"
She scrolled down the rest of the page, cmd-clicking every link until the Twitter page popped up.
"GODDAMMIT," she cried, 'THEY'RE ON THE WEST COAST."
Ricky did not realize that Luca Brazzi was a man's name, and so, all confused, he had dumped someone completely different, the wife of an architect named Lucia Brazziana (the wife not the architect), in the Hudson river, and had then sent a coded message to the Corlione family. As for Luca Brazzi, he did not sleep with the fishes; he simply overslept. So one can imagine Titaglia's confusion when he showed up, unannounced, with an icepick in hand, and stabbed it through Titaglia's eyeball.
This was in the era before horse heads and cardinals. When a vague optimism was...
Contemptlation of the one. The flame at the center of life. Beginning and end. No beginning, no end.
It's my birfday.
The children huddled around the flame, discussing what was to be done. One suggested that the only possible route was violence, the violence of the oppressed masses against their oppressor. Another suggested that they might take more subtle means of gaining control of the classroom, gain partisans. The teacher came in, and they blew out the candle, acting as though nothing had happened.
Every child around the cake wished that it was his birthday, that he could be the...
After removing the gown and sliding to the floor, she flinched - another splinter. Number four. That is simply too many splinters.
Fen agreed.
It was all a laugh. The lion hunting, being carried around by the natives, sweating on the African planes. Life was one big hurrah. We were, after all, the Empire. Not just an empire, but the Empire. Below the snows of Kilimanjaro, we posed for our picture, giggling, playing with one another. This was life. This was the life that power built. Our power? Not so much. It was more a power build over the years. One conquest after another. Royal Africa Company. East India Company. Liverpool. Manchester. Watt, Arkwright, and so forth. We were something unique. The cool arrogance...
There were three daughters of the Feng family, and when the father lost his business and the mother lost her mind, the three daughters were left to serve others on their own china, long ago sold for half its value to a family of gloating pretenders.
The first daughter married a nice young man from across the way, not a family of any importance but he was a hard worker and that was enough. The second daughter died young, and since no one cared to remember her family, much less her, her life was brief and short and unremarkable.
The...
It was cold. Freezing, really. There at the stoop, on the street, glowing in red. Dark, straight hair raking her face. She shivered, stood and walked down the street. To me, this place is foreign. To her, she knows the environment like the stories her mother told her. She walks down the road away from the doorway. Where they threw her out. Spit on her. But now she walks down the road trying to keep warm. She coughs. The shivers shake her again. The cold day drops her onto the street, rejecting her and the brightness of her clothes. The...