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When I was twelve, my hada madrina came to visit. My fairy godmother hadn’t come to see us since my baptism, so I didn’t even know her except from the stories, like the one about cousin Tomasita and the goat who could play fútbol.
* * *
“That’s a very noble thing, Miss Parrish. I commend you.” The strange woman smiled. It was a small, half-secret smile that hinted at private approval and a vast but encouraging amusement. Lavinia flushed, and went on before she grew tongue-tied.
* * *
It isn’t anonymous sex, you explained once to a friend. If you know their first name, it isn’t anonymous.
I always knew you were a slut, she replied, laughing, snorting with deeply fond amusement, but I never knew you were a deluded slut. You remember that now, with a demon riding your cock.
* * *
“Are you sure,” he began, still looking out the windows. He stopped himself with a visible effort that read ‘let me try that again’ as clearly as if he had held up a painted sign. “Ah. That is, what the river told me is bad. Very bad. It might be best to cut your losses and run.” He turned and looked me in the eyes. “I mean that literally.”
“You’re the second person to suggest that to me, Minnerton.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I’ve never known if you were brave or just unimaginative and stubborn.”
I barked a sound that could have been laughter, were the listener generous. I shrugged. “The jury is still out.” I took a sip of my bourbon and asked, “What did the river say, Minnerton?”
|What I Write||
I’m a fantasist, an essayist, and at times, a bad poet.
Every so often, a wonder gets worked.
“Recognizing Gabe: un cuento de hadas”
and at PodCastle:
“The Coffinmaker’s Love”
“Driving for Peanuts”
Oregon Literary Arts awarded me the 2018 Leslie Bradshaw Fellowship, for Fiction.
I’m working on a novel (working title “Counsel of the Saints”).
I’m also revising “Devilry,” “Dogsbody,” and have more work to do to on that other novel, plus a few essays.
As much money as you’ll give us!