Come celebrate the Brooklyn Book Fest with theNewerYork at NYC Literary Madhouse #5! I’ll be reading a piece of flash about dead pets. Doors are at 7pm. Get more deets here.
That one time when you realized your significant other would rather hang out with their chick friends than with you, because, I mean think about it, why would any one want to hang out with you in the first place when their chick friends are so much nicer, so much cooler, so much more interesting because they aren’t you?
She combed the gritty floor of Dead Horse Bay, searching for necklaces, lockets, for thin crosses on delicate chains. She unpinned hair clasps of carved ivory from the tresses of women whose bodies swelled with water, who were placed there by jilted lovers or slipped beneath the surface willingly. She relieved them, these women, of their heavy woven bracelets cluttered with charms. She considered herself a savior, preserving the memory of their passing. This was her sacred work.
The rot grew heavy. It became difficult to reach the women. Smooth faced as if they were her sisters, the maiden corpses were left lonesome in their adornment, visited only by fish that nibbled their flesh and once painted fingertips. Like them, she too was being devoured, immobilized.