by Jennifer SpiegelZachary picks me up from campus to go hiking.

Over my office desk, I’ve written the definition of apocalypse: good overcomes evil, often with violence.

He stares at it, doesn’t say anything. ‘Did you get food?’ He looks away from my definition.

‘I’m going for the apocalypse now, ‘I say, explaining. ‘No more postmodernity.’

(read on…)

by Jennifer Spiegel

moss malaria butterscotch Ndbele

I wake to the sound of roosters crowing.

Outside, chickens peck the ground’jerking their chicken bodies here and there. I’m under a mothy blanket that makes my hair itch. When I reach for my toiletries, my flashlight falls noisily to the floor and I cringe with the clamor. No one stirs. Quietly, I sneak out and head over to the Shaka bathroom to shower. By six a.m., I’m writing letters in the Coconut Bar. I can’t write in my journal. I can’t string words together in my own journal.

(read on…)

by Jennifer Spiegel

Tribal tattoo on the small of Zachary’s back.

I trace my index finger over its gray edges. Tracing it, claiming it.

He sprawls out on our bed, face down, nearly naked. Boxers half-off, arms outstretched. ‘My world is crashing down on me.’

I place my palms flat against his back, pressing firmly. Holding his world together.

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