Anisha dahal
Stories (10)
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My Mother's Body
I never saw his mother's body after her death. A man on the other line asked me if I wanted to — if they had to delay the cremation so that I could drive two and a half hours up the coast to where he was lying in the morgue. It is pale and has bright red cherry angiomas, on its sides with purple stripes of many kidney transplants and its arms have old red tubes where the tremors made him itch, and I could see it was enough with my mother's body alive.
By Anisha dahal4 years ago in Fiction
Which Will It Be
The decision did not surprise anyone. It was a sentence they would feel; the reason they packed themselves into the old sweaty court, on the wall to the peeling-oakwood-wall, the five hundred bodies holding the Clickers, pushing with one voice eagerly into their NutriShake feed.
By Anisha dahal4 years ago in Fiction
Where I'm From, We Eat Our Parents
His name is not "Fiend." Her people don't have the right mouths, so whenever Clarissa says her name sounds wrong. People's lips make it sound like "Fiend." The homonym is not appropriate, but he is patient with her. You will tolerate anything about Clarissa.
By Anisha dahal4 years ago in Fiction
Games
A stranger is sitting, if you call it sitting, in my treehouse as I try to explain to him the game of Monopoly. "No, no, no," I said. "You're stupid Billy Ailes and you've been left twice. The Boardwalk is yours. You bought it and you own it. You can't just throw it away. Maybe you can sell it, but if you give up all your properties. You will lose the game."
By Anisha dahal4 years ago in Fiction
A Wrinkle Ironed Out
Ada lies on her back, her face about an inch from the roof of the cathedral, and she rubs the ashes with damp cotton swabs. The left elbow of the Virgin Mary approaches her, a small piece of blue appears, the latter in a vibrant field of color drawn out in the dark. When Ada was a child, a project like this would authorize a team of conservationists, a film crew, a book on both front and back. As he grew up, Calmness sat on the ground like a woolen garment, and our interests shrunk and returned to our doors, to our paths, to the curtained rooms. The cathedral is no longer holding services, and Ada is familiar with her values alone and unseen.
By Anisha dahal4 years ago in Fiction
Some Form of Contact
Jody climbed the rough ladder to the roof of the house, Mick behind her making the metal move through her heavy male stairs. His face was close to his ass, which embarrassed and pleased him. He was a young man who burned grass all over the apartment. He imagined himself kissing her in the hot sun. He turned, breathing, to help her over the cup, embarrassed, convinced that the climb was a game ahead.
By Anisha dahal4 years ago in Fiction
