I find myself walking a paved road in the middle of a baraat, a groom’s wedding procession. It resembles a parade that will eventually pour through a small Indian village leading to a clearing where the bride and her family wait.
I came to the city to write. I hoped to find a bustling literary community to feed my spirit and offer me some kind of identity in a dizzying mass of humanity.
James calculated that the farthest he wanted to go was four hours by car. Eight hours of driving roundtrip. After his parents left for their fall conferences, he could hit the road.
The firefighters carried that extra baggage in their already twenty-plus-pound sacks on each and every trip. Their backpacks held their survival gear doubled in the weight of their historical heartaches, with their generational trauma in tow.
I already miss home. As expected, moving was a mistake. This house is big and empty. I don’t like big houses; my mother knows that. They make me feel small.
My therapist, a woman in her mid-forties with short hair and small spectacles, clears her throat and finds eye contact with uncomfortable politeness. I admit that I enjoy watching how therapists bend over backward to maintain composure, “Jess, I think you might be Bipolar.”
"Isn't that scotland. / Don't blame the tweed. / You have never seen a fabric before. / I think it should be our fleece. / I appreciate fabric. / That is my fleece. / I am interested in having wool." A series of computer-generated mini plays.
