I sleep through my alarm. Sometimes, I let the hell-clock buzz for more than an hour. Sometimes, in the throes of a delicious sleep fantasy, I convince myself that I must have made a mistake in setting it the night before.

Not that gin-sweat dizzies her. Not that wool chafes her cheek when he dances them through the house, stumbling to spin her white nightie, her body still soft with sleep. No, this is not to suggest that her uncle has a

“I woke up to the sound of pouring rain…” Not exactly, but that’s what was blasting out of John’s speakers as I slowly opened my eyes and struggled to recall just exactly what my position in the world was. My internal GPS

The gun in Isaiah’s hand looks fake. He smiles, ranged dramatically across the floor in front of the whiteboard, weight on his forward leg like Tybalt in the swordfight scene. His naked weapon is out. We all think

In the intense, deadening, stagnant afternoon heat, Bulawayo city house dwellers willingly allowed their droopy eyelids to fall, while sitting in soft armchairs or lying on satin bed covers.