We live in a lazy sound-bite culture. With each passing year, Americans demand that their lives become a little bit faster, a little bit simpler, a little bit easier. Jello Biafra once said, "Give me convenience or give me death," and this really is our new sacred patriotic creed. It's central to every aspect of our hurly-burly, Internet-and-latte lives, even here in slow, laid-back New Mexico. Wouldn't Patrick Henry be proud?
A broken cup of a girl, shocked numb and colorblind, rattled through cold tunnels of unpopulated perception, free of the weight even of dreams. That was after the Moonies, after the deprogramming. In the house with boards nailed over the windows, they had cracked her open, mopped up the spill. They tossed away her chill dark mornings singing ’Arirong' by the sea, carnations sold on street corners, praying in tongues. For a moment, I thought she might not have heard me. "Yeah, OK. I'll marry you," she finally allowed, her pale wafer-thin smile queer under the mercury vapor moon.—Winnie Devlin
The first time Marlys felt the baby move inside her, she fainted. A fan of sci-fi movies in her youth, she had seen too many aliens exploding from swollen bellies.