Two Fictions
Kim Chinquee


We sat on Jesus statues, holding Bibles, names engraved. My mother said to pick a souvenir, so I picked a knick-knack angel with a tilted head. The angel held a harp and her right cheek held a teardrop. Later we went to a park where deer got close, eating from our hands, stepping on our sandals. We took a ride to the Dells. Elvis died. We heard it on the radio, my mother crying real hard. I didn't know who Elvis was and neither did my sister. We went home early, to our little castle, and during the ride, my mom said it would be good if I collected angels. When we got back, my dad found cockroaches and went a little crazy. He ran around saying cockroachcock roachcockroach. He said it all the way to the hospital.

Doing it Over

She tells me her new guy fixed her house that got damaged from Katrina. She says he lives in our old parts and we start talking Midwestern. We say Packers PackersPackersPackers! Emphasizing the aaaaa, and then a new word, the eeeeeee and longation of the rrr, saying beeeerrrr. We do it over and over, over. She mentions him again, the new one. He loves the Packers and I think of all the Packer stories-another long and distant friend, high school friends fucking and falling, fucking and falling, fucking married Packers.
She says this new guy can help. She says it's, like, been centuries.