Hierarchy Of Nonsense

Leaning against a glowing billboard at the subway station after work on a Wednesday evening, June pulls out her notebook and scratches the tip of her pen against the rustic-brown pages of her leather journal. She writes about the sandwich she ate at her work today – Mediterranean, cheese-less, slightly sour on the tongue, and the wrong amount of dry. She writes about how she was up before dawn, before the Sun embossed its thin slits into a wavering pattern on her curtains, le

“What do you think about recycling?” Ben asked, inching dangerously close to June’s face, prompting her to lean away in the opposite direction, away from Ben’s scraggy beard and the crustacean crumbs still lurking in them from the calamari he’d attempted to share with her earlier, only to have hogged down the entirety of the plate before she finished her first piece. She wonders whether a better use of her unfinished wine would be to rinse away her date’s beard and perhaps ev

June Pal wears black and smells of bitter almonds on the day she is to Erase a man’s memory for the first time. She tiptoes across the grassy, green fields on the slow, sunny afternoon, careful not to let the pollen cling to the ends of her oversized black jeans. Her posture is slightly skewed to the right, almost drooping, under the weight of a heavy rucksack that has only a sloppy sandwich and an unnecessarily large tablet. Her fingers are intertwined, fidgeting with rings

PART 1: SUNSETS The orange hue of the setting Sun cascaded through the slits of thin, wispy clouds and drooped onto the verdant hills behind them, glimmering on the red-clad, rusty bridge. June sees the woman first in this Memory. Her hair was a series of gold deadlocks tied neatly into a bun, poised like a ball of yarn on top of her head, with two free strands gently swaying down her face. Her hands covered her wide smile; the blue on her nails complemented the green in h

It was a moonless night, which was suitable for the purposes of Carrot Vines. Not that Vines was up to some kind of mischief. In fact, Vines was the sort of un-mischievous, uneventful man who tended to perish first in stories dealing with natural disasters. If the novel were to deal with avalanches on snow mountains, Vines would be the character sipping on a hot cup of cocoa, busy correcting alphabetical mistakes on a vague receipt, because it would be too much trouble to ru

It had started small and simple – just a couple of knocks, as soft as the whistle of sand seeping down an hourglass. It had started small – in the beginning, Edgar ignored the knocks, blaming it on air creaking in from a shallow crack in the attic. And simple – but the knock got louder and louder until entire oceans were crashing against the shore around him, scratching his frail skin, pounding his withering consciousness. It had started small and simple – yet here was poor E