A nurse unplugs me from something. Aggie bites her lower lip. Our son and daughter and their spouses look ready to cry. Even my oh-so-world-weary teenaged grandson swallows hard. If I could, I’d whisper, “Rosebud.” Anything to lighten things up.… Continue Reading
In a box of mixed up secondhand books, something needs to stand out. This one did. Its title, How to Disappear; Vanishment Made Easy, caught my eye at once, mixed in with cheap novels from the Fifties and various “How… Continue Reading
Samantha etched the white oak onto her hand and arm: her wrist and forearm the trunk, her fingers the branches, fingertips the leaves, and on her palm the date and our initials. She wrote our first kiss inside her upper… Continue Reading
Ivan uses the L.A. Daily News as a placemat because his wife – rest her soul – once told him it is easier to throw out a stained newspaper than to wash a stained placemat. He prefers the obituary section;… Continue Reading
On the tour boat Funliner, eighty-seven children screamed. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” Captain Charles said. “The screams echo under the bridges,” Jimmy, the deckhand, answered. “They like the echo.” “It’s annoying. It puts me on edge.” “Plus, they… Continue Reading
That evening, we sat either side of my neighbour Goronwy’s kitchen range. He pronounced my latest batch of scrumpy cider — mysteriously cloudy, both sharp and sweet, with the smell of autumn — almost as good as the scrumpy his… Continue Reading
“What if I cheated on you?” Hattie always came at Tom with wild scenarios: what if you found a prettier girlfriend, what if I cheated on you, what if there’s a nuclear winter and the survival of humanity depends on… Continue Reading
Ms. Alice FoyBerkshire OH 45044 Dear Ms. Foy, I’m writing in reply to the multiple obscene comments you’ve left on our company’s Testimonials page as well as the scorched-earth social media campaign that you’ve undertaken against us in the weeks… Continue Reading
After the service, everyone came up to console me. Women enfolded me in scented hugs, cooing like so many mourning doves, “Deepest sympathy,” “So sorry for your loss,” and “She’s in a better place now.” The men patted my shoulder… Continue Reading
“I am Taylor,” he assures. My drummer hides beneath her cymbals. My bassist coughs and apologizes to no one specific. The audition flier specifies that our all-girl band, The Four Holsters of the Apocalypse, seeks an eighteen- to nineteen-year-old female… Continue Reading