by Meredith Chiwenkpe Asuru
As the crowd scurried tomatoes from the fallen truck, raining abuses at the government, you scanned the scene from the park’s dwarf fence. Once you saw the driver’s bloody hand, you started screaming for help. But nobody helped. Nobody. Not even your kind mum.
You are sitting in a rickety bus, hoping to alight before it breaks when the radio announces that Ekwena has won the presidential election. A man screams “yes”, and other passengers curse him and his generation. You hiss, stare out the window, at hummingbirds gliding in the bright sky, and wish we were birds.
by DJ Tantillo
My entanglement increases as I travel the path. As a scientist, I do not fear death. That conclusion is too far off. That distance is the horror. I will think sharply for a time, but I cannot convert those thoughts, via aging nerves and muscles, to intelligible messages to share with my children. They suffer my blank stares. I elucidated the chemistry and biology, but I couldn’t change it. That discovery was my greatest accomplishment. Living through the transition is the punishment for my enlightenment. Refusing to share my knowledge may or may not redeem me.
Select all. Delete.
Creating a Stink
I sat on a barstool cloaking my farts with subtle postural adjustments, eavesdropping on conversations right next to me.
“Do you know why you can’t kiss a prostitute?” A man was asking his passive girlfriend.
It looked like he was talking to cause an effect rather than from the heart.
“No,” his girlfriend replied.
“Because,” I interrupted, loudly enough for them both to hear, “a kiss is more intimate than intercourse.”
The pub went quiet, like in a scene in a western film where a stranger enters a saloon, as I left. I created a stink after all.