
JOHN LEAVES HIS HOME by Alex Juffer
John tracked their interactions and gauged the hierarchy. A redhead with no shirt and a flashbang sunburn ordered the youngest ones around. They worked in shifts now.

John tracked their interactions and gauged the hierarchy. A redhead with no shirt and a flashbang sunburn ordered the youngest ones around. They worked in shifts now.

Almost breathlessly, he raved to me that he had done it: He had separated himself from nature once and for all. I pointed out that we ate from nature before a light flickered in his eyes and I cupped my hand over my mouth.

Scientists have theories about why this happens, but I’ve got one of my own: our brain wants us to remember our horrible moments most clearly.

To the conscious Cartwrights, the deer warnings were novelties. The yellow on the signs was not invented. The deer recognized it as the sun.

Just as the first wife had found the stage name pretentious and comical, the second experienced the real name as uncanny, unnatural.

The Algebra II teacher stood up with his hands full of frozen peas. “I don’t know what to say. But thank you,” he said. A pea dropped from his hand. Tess moaned.

She walks with purpose over to a gangly tree and dumps our mother’s ashes at its base, then smears them around with the toe of her purple sneaker. Then she turns to face me as if to see if I’m going to object.

Amber beads, electric blue billowing, jasmine. Here comes Louise, here she comes, into the kitchen.

The rocking horse was hideous, though. It was the eyes. Wide open and vacant, set too high on that giant head. The foot-pegs had snapped off on Black Friday.

While we wait for the fruits of deliberation, my mother asks me to get personal. I tell her I’ve been nightmaring about getting kidnapped and beating the captor up.