Break From Reality. Daily.
This story is by Jeffrey Muchuweni Becker and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Her consonants were cotton through her mask, which softened nothing. The antibiotics would take seven days, and my arms were brown goose flesh in the fluorescent light coz I knew…
This story is by Jeffrey Muchuweni Becker and was part of our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. Her consonants were cotton through her mask, which softened nothing. The antibiotics would take seven days, and my arms were brown goose flesh in the fluorescent light coz I knew…
This story is by Jeffrey Muchuweni Becker and was part of our 2019 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here. He was a strong man for weak places, and my rundown motel room qualified. The sun had roughed up his skin, and his face might’ve been carved from oak. But…
I’m not an unprincipled man. But he just kept wearing me down. Like he was dismantling a monument, brick by brick.
I was in the Dominican Republic doing work for my dissertation. This was in 2003 when the peso plummeted like a rock, but I loved struggling, lively Santo Domingo. I was working with gay male prostitutes — bugarrones as they were called — interviewing and following thirty of them. They came from nothing, and paying them for research didn’t trouble me.
