SARA ROSE

Her father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. Her mother was a fifteen year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. Her father would womanize, he would drink, he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Some times he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy, the sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. Her childhood was typical, summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring she’d make meat helmets. When she was insolent she was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds, pretty standard really.