It was snowing out that night. The wind whipped through the crisp air, stirring the car. He drove at speeds over seventy miles per hour. He didn't care. He had been crying. He was working on his book again for the first time in months. The one about her. He kept erasing lines and starting over, never understanding why he chose to suffer. Why he bothered to put it down on paper, why he bothered to let it swallow him up so fully. He had been drinking, thinking about her, opening his work despite his foggy head. Furrowing his brow, scrunching his lips. His thoughts full of murk, mud…the lines blurring like the smallest line on an eye chart. He had finished two and a half bottles of wine by the time he left the book, open on the table, and took a drive. He switched from red to white after bottle two. Then, he got in his car. Thought it’d be nice to be out in the snow. To watch the billowy flakes bounce off the windshield, sprinkled through the air like fierce fairy dust. To see any image other than the one of her body nearly riven in half. The blood and gore when he found her. When he saw the scythe lying next to her motionless corpse. The way she did it so deliberately, so viciously, so cold-hearted. He couldn't bear to think about it, let alone write it. So, he stopped. He knew he shouldn't have been driving, but it didn't matter. Snow was coming down in violent thrashes of white. The three dimensional, full moon should have been dazzling in the sky and illuminating the city, but it was barely visible through the thick layers of powder and dark night. He couldn't see anything anymore. Just snow, failure, tears, and affliction. It didn't stop him from driving. He was afraid that if he stopped, he would really have to face himself. Face the memories. Nothing to preoccupy him when he was still. Why didn't she want to live? Not even for him. The car spiraled off the icy road. Sent into the atmosphere, swirls of white dust were all that existed. Then, it hit a tree, tangling its metal body around the trunk, skidding underneath piles of cold, hard sop. He didn't move. His heartbeat fizzled into the Earth. Blood and snow. Red and white. Silent road. Not a single sound. Not of owl or chirping crickets or coyotes beyond.
Shay Siegel is from Long Island, New York. She received a B.A. in English from Tulane University in New Orleans where she was a member of the Women’s Tennis Team. She completed an MFA in Fiction at Sarah Lawrence College. Her writing has appeared in Pamplemousse, The Opiate, The Writing Disorder, Belleville Park Pages, Black Heart Magazine and others. Her website is www.shaysiegel.com.
It was a summer that had snuck up on us. All of a sudden, condensation appeared against gin glasses and kept skirts slicked to tanned thighs. We would go on parties every other evening, hanging over balconies on Suffolk or Sullivan, catching cool breezes. We would hold cigarettes to our sunburnt lips, lighting them with crisp folds of cash as we sunk into the bursts of music floating up from the second floor.
My son is dead and it’s your fault, Mr. Clark. Yours and your father’s.
That’s what Rosa wants to say as she stands in front of Richard Clark’s desk, bringing Richard Clark his coffee, looking at Richard Clark’s handsome face and the measured striations of gray in his hair.
Emberly and Sahar only met in the confines of a bedroom; not for sex, but for more intimate affairs. They met for some time after enough nights of fooling around in a car, but the more time they spent together, the sexual tension stripped itself gave way to movie nights and hair brushing. Together, they were a cute couple, but the proximity was soon unwelcome.
“So I told my boss to piss off,” I said.
My wife’s normally serene face turned to stormy red. Was it the unusually colorful language I used in front of our three children?
Do you remember that summer we decided to eat only bread? Or I decided bread, and you broccoli.
Amy looked around. Everything was pink. Pink walls, pink bedspread, pink pillows, pink TV. Pepto-Bismol pink, Freudian pink; as if the Disney princess had died. Banksy would love this. She turned on the TV; every show was in pink. The Bachelor was in pink. Jamie Oliver was in pink. Even Shark Tank was in pink. Reality was the new pink. Or pink was the new reality.
Along the horizon, south of the United States, an expanse of crenellated concrete rises out of the Pacific and vanishes into the east, making tangible the intangible: an imaginary line bisecting a land once one. Tall and proud The Wall stands. Forty feet high and twenty feet deep. Its surface unadorned with design or texture. Just flat and grey through and through. Mighty enough to thwart the charge of fifty thousand Spartans. Priam of Troy would have envied it, the great lodestar of American Jingoism.
From birth until the sixth grade, home was a room on the tenth floor of the Hotel El Dorado in downtown Los Angeles. During its heyday in the 1910s and the 1920s, the hotel stood at the foot of the Spring Street Financial District—the Wall Street of the West—amidst the Braly Building (at twelve stories tall, the city’s first skyscraper), the Hotel Alexandria (frequented by the stars of the Golden Age of cinema, Humphrey Bogart and Greta Garbo), and, just blocks away, City Hall, all regal and white, looming over the blooming metropolis. The El Dorado flourished with all in its proximity and even lay claim to its own celebrity resident in Charlie Chaplin, but by the 1960s the financial institutions fled west to Wilshire and Figueroa, and the burgeoning quarter was rendered hollow. Its splendor laid to waste.
i am normally not the kind of dog who whistles at women on the street or stalks them with my eyes. i figure ladies have enough to worry about without some creeper giving them a hard time
Blush, I think, is the most important component when making up a corpse. I could not effectively do my job without it, I think as I apply the tiniest amount to the face of an eighty-year-old man who died of a heart attack. He must have been a drinker. I’ve been given a picture of him from when he was alive and he had ruddy cheeks.