biovignette

quinten

His middle name was something Italian, and those dark tresses draped him like a morose cloud. He was introduced to her as “my hairy castoff brother.” They had caught him smoking out front of the local pizza joint, and she’s not sure what all was in the cigar. Those hooded eyes, they were shot through with veins, like faults in the earth or lightning.

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Strangely-flavored deliciousness in a language I don't understand
biovignette

lingos, eyes, & ice cream

About five Asian women and two guys work at the nail salon next to Dairy Queen, and almost always, the two guys do my sister’s and my nails. We are not girly-girls, so we don’t go often, but when we do, the nail stylists recognize us. I think it’s because we look like twins; if only one of us goes, we inevitably are asked the whereabouts of the other. Continue reading

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biovignette

schoolspeak: things you hear from the hall

“Feel sorry for me. I fall in love with jerks and bearded guys and men who want to keep me skinny.”

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“I don’t know what the Stock Market is.”

“You want me to explain the whole Stock Market to you right now?” (he said snottily)

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Fertile is a bad word to use there.”

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We live in a world of conspiracy! See? Morticians have never done anything about drunk driving!”

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“We’re in this art museum. It’s gorgeous. Solid stuff, you know. Real deep… Then suddenly I notice the little dinosaurs. They’re literally everywhere. In the corners…next to the painting, beside the sculpture… The tiny plastic kind, like at the gas station. Then I look over, and there’s Dad. Standing there–smiling–high-fiving himself like a kindiegartner with too much candy.”

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“…praying drunk…”

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“If I were a man, I could fall in love with a girl with gap teeth.”

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“I’m excited about this!”

“You need to get a cat.”

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“It smells like illegal substances in here.”

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“Georgia on my mind…”

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“The way you’re wording this here… it sounds like… Well, if someone with Native American blood read this… they might… you know… Well, have Native American blood, back somewhere way back…not that I look it. I just wonder if you could put this… differently?”

“But that’s just how I write.”

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“…unfortunate ways of phrasing things…”

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“What’s that girl got a ghost costume on for?”

That is a boy. And don’t scream that: he’s in traditional garb.”

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“Put the phones away; I got your butts for ten more minutes.”

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“I think art is… making something mean more than the sum of its parts.”

“Yeah, technology may be cramping our style with this art thing.”

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“Homework for dayzzzzz….”

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“Can we do this democratically?”

“It’s like America: no one wants to vote.”

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“Let’s talk about blowing up.”

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fiction

rita

Rita does not smile. Not once, not even accidentally. Her dumpling body, poured into a Good Charlotte tee-shirt, moves catlike around the swivel chair as she brandishes shears above my head. Under the pressure of her tattooed fingers, I twirl twirl twirl in the chair, and suddenly, brown block bangs have been chopped to my brows. Continue reading

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