But one is a writer, and one is a hero, because it is the only thing they could possibly be.
She knew how to read a newspaper article when she was five; now she cannot tell Chinese from hieroglyphics.
As I walked home, I felt it—little wings against my lungs.
Two houses, virtually identical in structure and appearance. Odd, right?
At night he could hear her rustling the curtain. He would whisper his questions to her.
Its characters and events, while sinister, are plausible: an uncomfortable mirror to our own world.
There’s an our kind and a their kind.
I was Indiana Jones, hanging from a rope above a pit of snakes, my moves skilled and sure. My recorder was below, begging to be rescued like whatever unrealistic female heroine Jones would fall in love with and then totally forget about by the sequel.
Dantiel W. Moniz’s debut story collection, Milk Blood Heat, pulsates with the everyday horrors of being alive.
Out here, she knew, was his sanctuary, away from his daughter’s problems. Here, only these more easily governed fruits of his labor existed.