Sunday Six

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.

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