(not quite) a literary journal


O'Hare, by Devon Henry

There was a lightning storm somewhere over the Midwest. A giant column of clouds and flashing light. It was inspiring. I felt like I should have been scared but I didn’t feel any fear. I just felt insignificant.

I made a friend on my flight and he asked me if I dated men like him. I wonder what it’s like to not be an object. He insisted on buying me breakfast and we overheard the waiter talk about how he wished the Brits and the Irish talked like Americans; He said everything with a lisp.

I’m writing on a seat watching the planes take off. Another American has taken up all the seats. He’s talking loudly on his phone, leaving no room for the family of Chinese tourists.

I keep thinking of the lightning storm.

“The Parting Glass” was playing in the bathroom.

There’s six more hours until my flight.

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