Only the Good Parts Left
Elise Kelly
Angie was the type of car people kept in antique store backyards ‘cause they thought she looked cool, “There ain’t nothing like a Classic Chevy.”
In the bedroom they used to share, the real estate agent opens the blinds, letting in the mid- morning sun, then walks toward the desk and jots down her first notes: Office chair required. Small plant. Too many books.
How do you photograph silence? Is it represented by an empty room? A sleeping baby? A seascape? Such photos may lend a sense of quiet to the onlooker, but in reality, such scenes are not silent.
Hauling my suitcase up the unevenly-paved alley, I glance at the second-storey room I share with Komal.
Mister Pope stood in line at the Bank D’Amemzionne, where he’d come to make his regular cash withdrawal to cover the upcoming week’s expenses.
Angie was the type of car people kept in antique store backyards ‘cause they thought she looked cool, “There ain’t nothing like a Classic Chevy.”
He’s the sweet taste of strawberries on fluffy shortcake, with eyes that reflect an enormous Heart that’s displayed prominently on his sleeve.
The listing requires dimensions, and so there is the inevitable internal struggle. Laziness. Disorganization… Cannot find the measuring tape. Can she guess its proper size?
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.
