It was 3 AM and I was digging a hole in the desert.
Christa stood next to me.
In the torch light, she was a fidgety monster patting a bundle in her arms.
“Is it done yet Tess?”
Her voice was gritty in the smooth silence.
“Almost there hun, you just hang on.”
She went back to poking at the swaddle and cooing in delirium.
“Uh-huh, I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry. Momma’s gonna try and make this better you hear? I’ll be better next time. I’m so sorry.”
I’ve been here three times before; digging holes for Christa in the desert.
You could call me a good friend.
Dependable. Complicit. Fucking insane.
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[cheaper than a moleskine] The Buried
of sons and daughters (complete)
Download the complete and roughly edited short story here: Mijwaan by Saaleha Idrees Bamjee Cover photograph: Dominic Morel
Free writing exercise
Via via I don’t know if this counts though, as I scrawled while (wo)manning our paper goods stall at the fleamarket on Sunday. Probably took longer than five minutes too. Brain spew mostly. It’s what happens when you stop reading real books. Flies sit on the mind’s eyes. Creative kwashiorkor. Deep, deep down, down under …
allergic reactions
(A piece I started years ago and rounded off today) Talk to me dammit, Say something, anything. Please. I can’ tstand it when you get like this. Really, I can’t handle it. Why the hell aren’ t you speaking? Come on, please. Please? I’m begging you. What did I do? Tell me. Come on, just …