By J. L. Mayne She dances with the room. The music from the speakers vibrates up from the floor, radiating through her bones. She takes in the bodies around her, the crowd moving as one, the addictive notes caressing their brains, they submit to the melody. The sweet smell of sweat and alcohol permeating
The trails we walk are suspended over the park by white columns. An awning shades us from the glare of the sun, and intermittent staircases spiral down to the grass some ten meters below. From our elevated vantage point, we converse without interference from the sounds of children chasing each other gleefully through the grass.
Traditions are important. No matter how insignificant, how stupid, or how cruel. We hold to them. My hometown, a small, rural place, has its own traditions. And, as is the way with small, rural places, traditions are held to more strictly than elsewhere. And, if ever there is a day meant for traditions, it is
By J.L. Mayne The bile stings as it ejects from my empty stomach into the white porcelain. The acid struggles to mix with the water. Strings of green and yellow drip through the murk to the base of the bowl. My arms rest on the seat, where my family sits and defecates at least once
