by
n+1
(editor)
n+1 Issue 45: Attachment Issue
n+1 Issue 45: Attachment Issue
by
n+1
(editor)
by
n+1
(editor)
n+1 Issue 45: Attachment Issue
by
n+1
(editor)
by
n+1
(editor)
95
Fiction:
Little Miss Bigmouth
Summer has always been problematic for me. By Veronica Raimo
(missing author)
Summer has always been problematic for me. By Veronica Raimo
(missing author)
0
terms
2
notes
95
My brother dies several times a month.
It’s always my mother who phones to inform me of his passing.
“Your brother’s not answering my calls,” she says in a whisper.
To her, the telephone bears witness to our permanence on Earth, so if there’s no answer, the only possible explanation is the cessation of all vital functions.
When she calls to tell me my brother is gone, she’s not looking for reassurance. Instead she wants me to share in her grief. Suffering together is her form of happiness; misery shared is misery relished.
Sometimes the cause of death is banal: a gas leak, a head-on collision, a broken neck from a bad fall.
honestly top-tier opening
My brother dies several times a month.
It’s always my mother who phones to inform me of his passing.
“Your brother’s not answering my calls,” she says in a whisper.
To her, the telephone bears witness to our permanence on Earth, so if there’s no answer, the only possible explanation is the cessation of all vital functions.
When she calls to tell me my brother is gone, she’s not looking for reassurance. Instead she wants me to share in her grief. Suffering together is her form of happiness; misery shared is misery relished.
Sometimes the cause of death is banal: a gas leak, a head-on collision, a broken neck from a bad fall.
honestly top-tier opening
96
After ascertaining that her son is still alive, my mother always feels mortified. She pouts like a 12-year-old girl. Her voice even turns into a 12-year-old girl’s. How can you get angry at a little girl?
“You think I should bring the carabinieri some pastries?” she asks in that little voice.
Come to think of it, who knows why she called the carabinieri and not the regular police? I don’t dare pose the question, since it risks doubling the number of calls she’ll make next time. The fire department, for example, or civil protection. She’s never thought of them before.
After ascertaining that her son is still alive, my mother always feels mortified. She pouts like a 12-year-old girl. Her voice even turns into a 12-year-old girl’s. How can you get angry at a little girl?
“You think I should bring the carabinieri some pastries?” she asks in that little voice.
Come to think of it, who knows why she called the carabinieri and not the regular police? I don’t dare pose the question, since it risks doubling the number of calls she’ll make next time. The fire department, for example, or civil protection. She’s never thought of them before.