All tagged Fiction

Some were surprised that the show, which never captured more than a one percent viewer share, lasted as long as it did. The Haworth twins looked nothing alike; then there was Joan Didion’s Esquire piece ravaging Carol Haworth’s parenting style and the Connecticut student who noticed the window in McKelvey’s (19th century) stable, home of Wesley McKelvey’s mare Firecloud, revealed the top of a Burger King sign.  

My Aunt Sharon gave me a whole shelf-worth of conduct guides when I turned ten. She didn’t call them that, of course. And unlike Victorian conduct guides, none of them said my ovaries would shrivel if I read too much (although, my ovaries did eventually shrivel, or more accurately, they exploded, but that was years down the road yet. At 13 my ovaries were still intact, as far as I knew).  

Emily acted as guide, her arm around Nathan’s, until they sat opposite each other. Her eyes scanned the menu lazily, already knowing she would get the flauta plate and as many free margaritas as they’d serve her. Nathan’s eyes flickered up to her face then back down to his phone, fingers never ceasing the algorithm-perpetuated doom scroll.  

In addition to being a lovely person, my sister also possesses a great memory, meaning the slightest hint of something you might drop in discussion can turn up in a lovely gift at any time. Staring down at the gleaming rendition of Abe Lincoln I remembered how the last time we spoke I told her about how I was getting into coin collecting after reading an article about this one particular printing of penny that had just sold at an auction for an exorbitant price. This one didn’t have the defect that made that one so valuable, but it was rare nonetheless. 

I arrive 15 minutes early because that is what the flier says to do. The address has brought me down an alleyway between a church and a nail salon. It’s dark and wet. A car pulls up and a man gets out. He is tall and has pecs that push through his t-shirt. He asks me if I’m here for the fitness class. I hold up the flier. He says his name is Derek and tells me to follow him.  

My day began with a cup of coffee. A dash of caffeine was what I needed to kick start my day—a software engineer's job involved long hours of staring at the screen, making me susceptible to drowsiness. Lunch would comprise a sandwich filled with oodles of cheese, and dinner would be a burger, besides the alcohol at those local bars during happy hours. 

“Thank you all for being here to celebrate my lovely wife, Julie.” He smiled at her mother, then Bri and the rest of the gathered party. “I know your love for Shakespeare, dear, so I thought this would be something you’d enjoy.” With an overly-dramatic flourish of his hand, he sat on the loveseat with his wife.  

That was true. I confess that when the NSA woke me at 2 AM asking for my assistance with an urgent legal matter, it was difficult to refuse. First, they'd tried calling my business cell, next calling my private cell, then knocking on my door, and finally, calling my private cell again. That's when I caved in and answered. 

Though I was starting to feel sleepy like my mother would, I stood and surveyed the cemetery like I knew what losing a friend felt like. Everyone raised their bottles, downed whatever they had left. The headstones began to melt. Part of the ground started to cave in. I wasn’t sure if when I returned home after the wedding, I’d remember slogging through the broken cemetery gates when we were done mourning, feeling warm, welcomed, whole.  

His poems, she could tell, were bad. She listened intently, however, her ears straining for any hint of voluptuousness or sensuality. But as far as she could tell, his poems were about buildings: concrete, and tarp blowing in the wind, and steel and construction. The word “steel” excited her whenever he said it. She wondered if, underneath it all, it could be about love.