Marie was stretched out on the sofa, sipping a glass of wine, flicking through the television channels. We’d already watched two shows featuring evil people, smart crime solvers, and autopsies, not speaking much while we watched, dozing off from time to time, but not at the same time. Marie rested the remote on her thigh.
Tag: STORGY Magazine
The Islamic philosopher Averroes once wrote that God, the Eternal, did not create the world. He knows the world, and because God only believes the truth, the world exists to justify God’s honesty. Against this Averroes’s predestined enemy, the destroyer of philosophers Ghrazali, denies that self-made things could live up to the standards of a
The Moon is 2,000 miles across and about a quarter-million miles from Earth. It formed from chunks of rock and ice when the Earth and the rest of our solar system was molded from the Grand Cataclysm responsible for everything, about 4.5 billion years ago, the one that ended one thing and began another. Perhaps
A panda appeared in our street, skewered to the railing outside my house. Let me paint the picture: there’s the road outside my house, then there’s this long strip of grass, then there’s the houses opposite. And the grass has got these railings all the way around it, for kids to kick their footballs off
Marjorie sees the young people in the town sometimes. They are maybe sixteen or so, young men mostly. Somehow they have become separated from their family though she can’t imagine how. She tries not to meet their gaze, not to look into their dark eyes. She is told to be afraid of them, told she
Once a week Kate sits in his small office, laying out stories spanning her thirty years. Loose pages of a book, confessional secrets for her pastoral counselor to untangle and make sense of, they tell of her father’s angry outbursts and stony silences, her mother’s icy glares and disapproving comments, her own struggle for self-esteem.
‘Your attitude, not your aptitude, will determine your altitude.’ – Zig Ziglar ‘They put up a poster saying we earn more than you, we’re working for the clampdown.’ – The Clash I turn down the radio in my car – talk radio – some crappy awful phone-in show providing a platform for the permanently incensed,
My father sat in a thin blue shirt with buttons undone, his breath seeping out the corner of his chapped lips in lazy coils. The windscreen had frosted over during the night, barbed spirals of ice like bacteria in a petri dish. He hadn’t bothered to scrape it off on my side and only an
‘Don’t write like a housewife. And read David Sedaris.’ This was the advice my daughter gave me as she thrust a copy of his book, Let’s Discuss Diabetes With Owls into my hands. Three years later, on the night of my 49th birthday, Bec took me to see David Sedaris at Cadogan Hall in London.
Zack’s phone vibrates. It reads, she’s my best friend. Promise you’ll tell her on the drive home… ok? He replies, yes. Once sent, the young man swipes left on his conversation to ‘Marty B’ and hits delete. The sedan’s trunk slams shut and Tiffany climbs into the passenger seat just as he manages to disconnect