With Desmond Dekker’s buttery voice, Lenny Kravitz’s hair (circa 1995) and Frodo Baggins’s powerful bare feet, the singing white man was like a Voltron of rastafarian perfection. His performance was beautiful, moving and totally unacceptable.
“What’s this?” Jahmarcus cried.
The music stopped, leaving everyone in the room longing for more.
“Dis is Marley,” said Yabbi, annoyed. “Our new singer. We’re jamming.”
As Marley nodded--“sup”--his blonde dreadlocks bounced like fuzzy golden slinkies. Jahmarcus’s hair used to bounce like that, before his controversial haircut last week.
“But... what about me?”
“Sorry, Jah, but you don’t really have the right look... anymore.”
I was riding up the escalator at Target when a kid tried to surf down the shopping cart conveyor.
Horror buried under my tongue like an icy lozenge. If he wiped out, the conveyor belt teeth would’ve shredded him like old medical records. He offered a high five as we passed.
The kid maintained balance until the dismount, then—face plant. The conveyor spat cart after cart over his body. As the escalator carried me away, a pool of blood expanded across the white tile.
Now whenever I see a bull’s eye, I puke. So, nausea.
I also sometimes get migraines.
Since her first breath, perception of color was limited to black, white, and every imaginable gray in-between. No one could quite figure out why. Just was.
She'd often hear talk of all the curious and wondrous colors of the world. Like the periwinkle blue of the sky, or the crimson red on her teacher's paper thin lips.
To her, you see, the color "red" was a dusky shade of gray. But the same held true for a range of other hues.
What was peculiar about her was, when asked if it was color she could see, her response was always "Oui."
He’s come back on the 29th every month since. Funny thing is, each pair looks worse and worse. Today, the buds were smashed to pieces, the cord violently stretched to twice its length, the rubber ear-pieces melted into freakish little blobs.
“We can take care of that,” I said, not even bothering to check the receipt.
Peter Holsin, music editor
“What would a fish queef sound like?”
“Blup, blup, blup, bleeeeeep.”
“What are you talking about? That’s definitely worthy of a ROFL.”
“Yeah, but I’m in bed already, so, can’t really roll on the floor. Miss you.”
“Missouri sucks. Miss you, too.”
She tucked her iPhone back into her purse. The sound of the squealing showerhead stopped and she heard his wet feet slapping against the cheap laminate flooring.
“Whew. That was good. Ready for round two?”
The fucking commenced as the iPhone slipped out, FaceTime still in full swing.
She tried to keep her knees locked together. She didn’t want it to happen. It couldn’t happen. It wasn’t right. But there she was, watching a child forcing its way out of her vaginal canal. A child she feared would be an abomination. You see, it was June. And this was unheard of. Yes, children are born in June all the time all over the world. But not here. Not in this family. They were all September children since anyone could ever remember. Everyone waited both scared and excited. Mostly scared. What came didn’t have horns or scales. Just brown hair.
Alex Zaragoza, calendar editor