There are three types of people in the world: (1) knowers (2) not-knowers and (3) knowers who can’t stand the not-knowing. Lucy was the third type. In fact, her discomfort was such that any sort of not-knowing tended to prevail over all else, preventing her from achieving any measure of satisfaction. Ever since she was a little girl, she was blessed (or cursed; she was never quite sure) with the knowing. Everyone she’d ever met bore an inscription in careful black lettering—presumably from a cosmic pen of some sort—indicating precisely the role they would play in her life. Confidant, Friend, Defender, Enemy, etc. The mailman’s label read Acquaintance, and the elderly man across the street bore a label that read Stranger. This was the way it had always been. Read more in Joyland magazine.
A short absurdist piece to be published in CAROUSEL magazine in Winter 2018. Check out your local Chapters or Indigo to pick up a copy!
Things got bad, fast. Lucas made us abandon our rental car in the Nepalese mountains and convinced us to hitchhike in the wrong direction. We started dashing for trains only to deliberately miss them. […]
We generate chaos because we can; we sleep in dirty hostels and toss down sake/espresso/chai because we must; and if we stop, we’ll die.
Coulton, Marisa. “Ocean-Bound.” Untethered Literary Magazine, 3.1, August 2016, pp. 23-26. Print. https://alwaysuntethered.com/excerpts/vol-3-1/ .
I am just shy of twenty years when you walk into the sea.
But this is later. For now, you are here.
Ankle deep and I am awoken by your whimpers. I slip from my bed and feel my way through the darkness until my hands make contact with your wooden bedframe. I ease myself under the covers. We are nine years old, and this is the first time I have done this. I can feel the heat radiating from your skin, so intense that for a moment, I think you might be sick. I reach out and lightly touch your elbow.
You say nothing. My eyes track the movement of the ceiling fan, listening to the way the blades cut through the air, making an evenly timed “wub, wub” sound.
“Tell me what’s wrong,” I plead.
You turn to me. In the dim, it is almost impossible to see the minute differences to which we have become accustomed: a freckle here, a wrinkle there. In the near-darkness, we are truly identical — a halo of curly hair wrapped around each head, tendrils wet, and plastered to our foreheads: mine from sweat, yours from tears.
“I don’t know,” you say, and I believe you.
Sighing, I rest my forehead between your shoulder blades and close my eyes. At some point, your breathing calms. I know that in the morning, our father will free us from the knot of blankets that bind us together, and you will be okay.