Now and then, when the moon flaunts a particularly peculiar hue, one is overcome with an insatiable yearning to fall backwards. The first port of call is more often than not the scrapbook. But, typically, upon looking at the postcards within, memories fade into milky incandescence. Some girls will then turn to systematic meditation, sitting
Carl figured there just weren’t enough adjoining plots in Our Lady of Sacred Light’s cemetery to accommodate the family in full—the dead and the would-be dead. So, they were split up—father and mother in one space, plots for Carl and Nate in another. Carl’s father was the first to go, and he was gone for
Peter’s fingers brush Caitlin’s as he takes the pamphlet from her hand. He nearly says, ‘Jesus Christ, your hands are freezing,’ but stops himself. It’s overfamiliar, when they’ve just met. ‘“Creeping nothingness”,’ says Caitlin. ‘That’s how you described it on the contact form, right?’ ‘Right,’ says Peter, pretending to read the testimonials. ‘Thanks.’ His thumb
Dwight hovered in front of the vending machine. Oversalted chips, over-sugared candy bars, or the caloric emptiness of gum. Why did the hospital offer such faux nutritional alternatives; wasn’t that a conflict of interest? When he was a kid, vending machines meant something exotic or exciting. The rare trips to Father’s workplace had always involved
The degree to which a gentleman reveals himself to another is a curious state of affairs at the best of times, though I suppose the holding of a razor to one’s throat helps. That said, I doubt anyone would be the slightest bit surprised at a gentleman’s willingness to betray the confidence of another, whether
Mesmerised, her eyes locked onto the images on the screen. An earthquake in the ocean, its magnitude measuring in at ‘twenty-three thousand Hiroshima sized bombs’ causing a tidal wave forty foot high, its watery fingers grasping at the shore, breaking with the puissance of a racehorse, moving swiftly round the corner, taking the final hedge
I came across the troll yesterday, quite by chance. I’d been clearing the loft, and there it was at the bottom of a tattered box containing miscellany from my youth, that impudent smile I hadn’t seen in many years. Finding it brought to mind a much larger troll, for want of a better word, an
Somewhere in the USA, Late September 2017 That losing the show wouldn’t be the worst thing, that there would be financial ruin, bullshit stories, public vilification, name-calling, getting spat at (because yes people do that), private conversations with jerks in dark moments telling him good on you for speaking up — that things would not
Cassandra heard Dean rough-housing with the dog upstairs—the barking and clomping were louder than the rumble of the dryer—and when she emerged from the basement with a loaded laundry basket and glanced through the front hall to the living room, her mouth dropped open. Her fiancé (clothed, thank God) was behind Koshi, their yellow lab,
Franny always said our pastries had the consistency of dried paper mache. At night we’d wrap the leftovers and leave them outside for the homeless. Not even raccoons would go near those things. One by one we had to let our staff go. We consulted a financial advisor, who said our best course of action
