extinction--nonfiction

A seat at a table. It’s a foldable chair. The kind that comes in beige or gray. The kind that everyone will help stack on racks at the end of evening.

Every Monday morning we gather on the sagging sofas, some of us crosslegged, holding cushions to our chests, and report on the week’s cases.

It’s cold in Norway this time of year and the nights are short. The sun goes down just before 11PM and comes up again at four in the morning. I thought it

Shelly was nineteen years old, and she did her best to get by. Blond hair and a cherry vine tattoo; her family called her Treasure. It is unclear to us how long

I’m five years old, barefoot in the backyard with my dad, picking tomatoes. They grow up the thin wire cage like they’re reaching for something. We