make it any easier to watch someone drown himself. Maybe it’s the similarities between my father and this loathed animal that make me unable to chase and kick at them. I don’t care for the pigeon, or for my father, but I can’t be the cause of either harm or death. Even though he is gone, I am still plagued by him and by the destruction he so subtly laced throughout my life. His death has made him real to my faraway life; his omniscience cooks up hate inside me.
Emma’s Volkswagen stopped in front of the station. Her large teeth presented behind a wide-lipped smile. As she flicks her bangs out of her face, I see him again, in the burnt brown hue of her eyes. She clutches my shoulders and kisses me hard. ‘Your mums told meh—you alright?’ I forage in my deep coat pocket for a cigarette, grind the metal Zippo with my thumb until a flame peaks; I singe the end of my Mayfair. Smoke and hot air drift from my nose and mouth. I kiss her again.
Amber Koski is a writer of experimental forms with a love of simple diction. Identity and sexuality are themes in her prose while her poetry tinges on Southern Gothic. She is currently completing her creative dissertation project inspired by Anne Carson's 'Nox' for Kingston University.