Monthly Archives: May 2014
Six sentences for Sunday, May 11:
You mailed me letters every week and I spent hours decoding them, the only part of you I had. Uryyb, Juvfxrl, they all began. I traced my fingertips along the curves of your words while my other hand sketched out the translation, A for N, B for O. Your pencil dug deep grooves into the paper, an indelible mark.
Your letters were full of the kinds of adventures I imagined Nancy Drew might have had at camp, up until some valuable heirloom went missing—hiking, canoeing, making out with boys in the woods after curfew. You told me, using ROT13, about Evan, the boy from New York who’d unhooked your bra behind the boathouse and put his brusque hands on your breasts.
I will basically have shared this entire story in six sentence portions before too long. Guess I’d better write something else.
Six sentences for Sunday, May 4:
I’d seen all sorts of things in my time: cities that burned for months on end, women levitating above the ground, a man shot six times who got up and walked across a frozen lake, only to fall through the ice and drown. There was a woman, once, who would pass her hand over your eyes and tell you when you were going to die. Even those who were dead didn’t necessarily stay that way. Men declared dead, from time to time, would wake with a gasp, with a flickering of their eyelids, and the doctors would simply shrug and move on, their interest extinguished once the patient was out of danger. Anything is possible, that is what the war taught me–the greatest cruelty, the worst fear, also sometimes the most perfect happiness and relief. Something gets shaken loose, who knows what.