She walked towards the table in the middle of the classroom where the plastic time capsule lay open, like a treasure trove of memorabilia for the kids to open at their tenth reunion.
People say that beauty is only skin deep, and that it’s what’s inside a person that really counts, but when you look like me, people tend to forget that there might be anything inside me at all worth looking for.
“I reckon maybe you have malaria.”
Every day when I get on the train to go to work, I stand with my toes just over the yellow safety line as my small act of rebellion for the morning.
As I recollect, the words they used 'bout me on the news afore I was caught was "delinquent" and "notorious".
The snow is uneven, slushy, glinting murkily in the tailights of the traffic that lumbers past like shiny red-bottomed elephants on skates and fades into the dark night.
From my lofty height I stare down at the seething masses.
I hate all the people in my department, with their antagonism, their machismo, their relentless bullying and big hands and meaty, manly jowls.
I ashed my cigarette all over his desk pretending not to notice the angry red "no smoking" signs.
I'll puzzle through the old man's petulance.
She sits at the little wooden table, knees together, ankles apart, forearms resting lightly on a thousand scratchy splinters.
The night air is soaked warm, like raisins for a pudding, with the smell of sweat and smoke and the low rumble of voices.
She looked at me and said
In green grass, silkily damp with dew and bowed down with humility, Rose rambles, gnarly with thorns, tinged with imperfections.
Blonde hair, brown skin, green eyes, blue eyes, long limbs, dreadlocks, justifications, recriminations, a dozen languages, a dozen cigarettes, first world guilt, humble actions, superior thoughts.
I creep around the strange room, slowly, painstakingly, like a murderer.
Mad Meg’s what they call her, and I can see why.
Strung out in the hammock
It takes a lot of self-discipline to do what I do.