ball of twinecrumbled cookies

Chapter One

Black god: Hello, Sarah.
Sarah Silverman: Are you god’s black friend?
Black god: Sarah, your song was so passionate, so selfless. It has risen above the sound of a billion prayers. I want you to pick one wish, and I will grant it. All you have to do is choose.

–Sarah Silverman


“Murder,” Bertrand whispers. He leans into me, nods, closes his eyes for just a second. What to say? So, what’s new? Life is murder? Murder most foul? I can’t have Bertrand going off the deep end, rowing with one oar or, worse, both oars on one side of our figurative Noah’s Ark.

“Anyone special?” I ask.

He nods three times. “Oui.” Enthusiastic for Bertrand.

“Bertrand?” Bertrand’s head slumps onto the plush brown velvet sofa in my mother’s living room. The fabric reminds me of the hard crust on crème brûlée.

Silence. We haven’t really been close for a while. Way before 2020, when ash blotted out the sun in most of the world. Even before the earthquake. We weren’t really close before the water wars forced us to leave Miami six years ago. The good news is that all that Pre-Apocalypse guilt I felt about lack of intimacy seems ridiculous in 2023.

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