by K.S. Dyal

I don’t know why we hung out in the cemetery, tank tops dusting mausoleum walls in the sleepy heat, except that maybe while eating Twizzlers and discussing our code-name system for boys—from attractive (Swans) to not attractive (Crumpets) and various in between (ex. Monets: only attractive from afar)—we thought angels would come for us, stepping quiet-footed through the grass to sweep us up in a great winged flurry, soft as the moss under our palms, to a heaven without mirrors.

K.S. Dyal is the author of the forthcoming novella, It Felt Like Everything (Ad Hoc Fiction 2022), and work in or coming from SmokeLong Quarterly, CutBank, JMWW, CHEAP POP, and elsewhere.