Refusal brought too much attention, so I was ready the next time the tongue came towards me. I snatched its grey-white tip and felt the weight of its inner meat slide down in the sheath of its skin. I lifted it high so the other end would not touch me and passed it along.
RECENTLY PUBLISHED
I wish I had known better at eight when my mother's stroke changed my life. But not all knowledge arrives when it should.
That he spends more time narrating what he would do to you than doing most, if any, of it is the kind of intermittent reward used to create addiction in lab rats. You are the rat.
In my twenties I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mother. When my friends started having kids, however, I worried I was missing out on something.
“Braunwyn is a fiction writer whose work I’ve known and admired a long time.”
My mother was the first to notice. She was always acutely aware of animals, nature, and cute things that cooed.
Self-portrait because I once saw a door and knew not to open. Because behind every door is a mouth, and the tongue, a road.
