We Will Live Here Forever

My brother is over, as always after his Tuesday night AA. I open my apartment door as soon as he buzzes, turn back to the salmon I'm poaching in a cheap saucepan on the stove. My brother doesn't love salmon. He loves ice cream. We joke about this. “I smell salmon,” he says when he shuffles in the door, blue eyes smiling, backward Whole Foods baseball cap on his head. “Are you practicing your co-dependence on me again?”

We Could Be Like Bonobos (an excerpt from The Enhancers)

The Lumena Center didn’t do much for me ever, and on a Friday night especially, with all of its fluorescent lights illuminating the worst in the shoppers and supplement poppers and gamers and everyone moving within. Samsun was a habitué of the Center’s VR cage, where guys, mostly, would play games wearing headsets, each assigned to a different padded cubicle. This abutted a literal cage where people gamed together and one of the challenges was not running into one another.

Viola Sororia

Grandmother loved the Latin names of the flowers she’d raise in her greenhouse and in her garden. She believed you should know everything about the things you love.

She made the rounds in the afternoon from one area of the garden to the other: the rose patch, the dark ivy twisting around a metal arch leading to the left of the house, the white lotus flowers floating on the pond on the other side.

The Writing's On the Wall

            And but Tweed was all like, "Yo, you gotta hear this shit -- this shit is stupid!" And Dig's hanging on to his every word, like "Yeah man, give it to me," and I'm just hanging low, leaning over the bar, staring at all these bottles of all this Blue Curacao shit and thinking, man should I do another shot? And Tweed's jabbering away about some cat he knows, "This cap from East New York, this goomba..." But I'm lost, 'cause by this time I'm three sheets to the wind shitfaced.

The Goat

Tope Folarin's debut novel, A Particular Kind of Black Man, is set partly in Utah and partly in Texas, and it is largely based on the author's actual experience as the son of Nigerian immigrants. It is a coming of age story and also an immigrant narrative focusing more on the experience of the first generation American children of Nigerian parents. It is both uplifting and heartbreaking—heartbreaking in the way all immigrant narratives are heartbreaking.

The Girl

“You shall find me again, and you shall lose me…”  - Marcel Schwob, The Book of Monelle


We might be crowded in cells. Who’s to say? There are no walls. No edge to reach. The guards snatch us from the green darkness. The victims wail and plead. When it’s my turn, I hear your voice again: Remember everything and find me.


The Frenchman

After having sex with her husband, Sabi left him in bed for the Frenchman on her laptop. Usually, the wireless connection would buffer halfway into a clip, but tonight the signal was strong. Despite needing to get some rest for her third oncologist appointment, Sabi stayed up the rest of the night. In the morning, she would know if the chemotherapy was working. She didn't want to think about the results of the PET scan or the chemo. She didn't want to brace herself for another assault of fatigue, nausea, constipation, and that damn metallic taste in her mouth.