by Centaur Lit | Jul 27, 2025 | Summer 2025
I could go up the street and knock on the front door. Confront. Accuse. The anger a blocked space leadened in my forehead, his face a tight smile. Later, you would hang your head in your hands at the kitchen table, your hair beautiful in the lamplight. We would gather...
by Centaur Lit | Jul 27, 2025 | Summer 2025
The thing about trauma is that it repeats. In a world of lines, it’s a whorl. Lillian moves forward (through her day, her semester, her life). Then there’s a disruption: a smell of burning leaves, an accidental brush against damp dirt, the taste of smoked fish....
by Centaur Lit | Jul 27, 2025 | Summer 2025
She is surprised that in China this type of fitting room still exists, with its mirrors on all sides so one can see four endless queues of selves. When she was little she called it “magic room” but now she finds it strange. She came here to hide—her family are urging...
by Centaur Lit | Jul 27, 2025 | Summer 2025
He hadn’t seen another of his kind in many moons, since she stopped living. Her chestnut fur, the smell of pawpaw and dandelion. Her body curved with his child. She was taken by the sickness. He’d held her head in his lap and cried for the sickness to take him...
by Centaur Lit | Jul 27, 2025 | Summer 2025
like we planned, on the right side of the river where the lift took us up to the top of Gellért Hill and we had a view of the city, the Danube slicing through Buda and Pest and we could see forever from our perch above the street vendors selling lángos, above the...
by Centaur Lit | Jul 27, 2025 | Summer 2025
In the overgrown field, I am lying in the wildflowers, cradled in Queen Anne’s Lace and honeysuckle, and asters and cornflowers, and looking up to the sky with the white fast clouds, and I feel the earth dance in a wild spin, and it makes me dizzy, and I see the black...