The sun has blessed you," Sarita used to say. "Look how he has left his kisses on your face for all to see and be jealous." "The sun loves you more," I said, rubbing my hands over her dry arms, the color of an aged wine gourd, and she laughed. But this is not India and we are not prized for our freckles here. The sun is not allowed to show his love.
Libba BrayTheta blew out another plume of cigarette smoke. โNot interested. Loveโs messy, kiddo. Let those other girls get moony-eyed and goofy. Me? I got plans.
Libba BrayWhat Hamlet suffers from is a lack of zombies. Let us say Rosencrantz and Guildenstern show upโHo-HO! Now youโve got something that stirs the, um, something that stirs things that are stirrable. BOOM! A pack of ravenous flesh-eaters breaks open their heads and sucks out their eyeballs. No need for iambic pentameter because they are grunting, groaning annihilators of humanity with no time for meter. Youโre not asleep in the back of English class anymore, are you? This is what Iโm talking about. Zombies. Learn it, live it, love it.
Libba Bray