Veils

Norma Desmond and I go way back, trading husbands, settling scores. We’ve always been big. It’s the insults that got small. Hag heads bloom like black holes in your weddings albums, cigarette burns through white bridal sheets. Your cursor hovers over wives you’ve silenced...

Serpent

Weighted by the chains of pride and knowledge he sank into the darkened world to paint his final piece. He poisoned his fellow adepts and the master who had given him the knowledge of sin’s power. He wasn’t like they who allow the current...

Impressions

“This is ridiculous,” he says, squeaking a crayon peevishly across his faceplate. “We’re not risking interstellar crisis for your ego,” I tell him, scrawling some final curls on my own helmet. “The Naur won’t speak to someone without a face. Self-expression is very important.”...

Alone

My love is dead, while I hurtle through space in my tin can made for one, eking out rations in defiant futility. All that remains of her is an unflattering photo, pinned to my console, blurred through a filter of tears. I watched the...

Appropriation

The artist came to town in September. He was quite a celebrity, his work evocative of early Picasso with its dancing shadows and splashes of ethereal light. In the Arts School auditorium students crowded the stage, asking for autographs, offering to pose. She was...

Airbrushed

I stare at the photo. You. Her. Eyes creased in sunlight. Matching smiles. My replacement is young. Beautiful. As flawless as a cover model. Save. Open. Edit. A frenzy of clicks. She may be lovely, but I can make this picture perfect. First her...

Disfigured

This is Lola in black and white. The turtleneck accentuates the sharpness of her birdlike bones while concealing her bruised throat. Here she is in colour with her hair pinned up, minus the shirt. That blotchy discoloration runs ear to ear. A physician informed...

Disappeared

The portrait of my missing wife sits against our bedroom wall. It’s not quite finished yet. “It looks exactly like her,” people say, “before she disappeared.” Whenever she looks unhappy, I’ve painted in things she likes. First, her favorite books. Then, our poodle. People...

Terminal

Darkness drops its anchor, spreading like ink. Silence holds me gently as my existence unrolls before me like fragile, ancient parchment. Failures, sins, stains; the pins that track an empty, wasted life. I scream into the void inside me. I rake my nails across...

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