Fiction, Poetry, and Loose Change
Quite a crowd of us had gathered by the massive front door when it was swung open by a grinning James Mulroy. Though just fifteen, he had a mind as spry and quick as a young fox and thus was our leader “Remember, only the stocking frames,” he said. “It’s symbolic, like.” We jumbled into…
I was just getting her set up when Crabs come around to tell me I was wanted in the office. There was a new fella behind the desk, a kid. He told me Butler Amusements was taking me off the wheel and putting me on the kiddie-boats. There had been complaints, he said. I should…
His voice was so deep it set the glasses to rattle on the table, and when he laughed his eyes were almost swallowed by his jolly cheeks. But it was when he sat down at the piano that he come really alive. You’d never think fingers so thick and calloused could move like that, drift with…
Jeannie sorted through her change purse, counting out nickels and pennies to pay for the milk. She would have rather had a Yoo-hoo but remembered all those School House Rock songs about nutrition. Funny how things can get stuck in your head. She had just enough, with three cents over. The man behind the counter smiled.…
I sit on the bed waiting for Noni to dress me. My medium-focus glasses don’t give me a clear view of my feet, but I know they are purple and swollen. I just turned 97. I don’t know why I am still here. I never took especially good care of myself, never had any particular joie de…
October 28, 1906 Remanded into custody, State Facility at Cedar Grove: one Johann Blück, clockmaker of Paterson, New Jersey. Johann’s mania became unbearable to his wife. He would stay in his workshop day and night, neither eating nor sleeping. When asked why he was working so hard, Johann would jabber hysterically or mutter incoherently, his…
I went outside and built a bonfire in the yard. We passed a bottle of bourbon around. Soon all the wood was used up. I got the chairs off the porch and threw them in. When they were gone, I grabbed anything that would burn––my daughter’s wagon, rakes and shovels, a bag of bark dust.…
“The sweat lodge is a ritual of purification. It’s like being reborn.”
Darius squinted against the glare of headlights bouncing off the rear-view. The man tapped a heavy flashlight against the driver-side window. Darius rolled it down. “Officer?” he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice. “Hell boy,” said the man behind the flashlight. “I’m the sheriff. You blind?” “My apologies, Sheriff.” “This sure is…
Disbelief at first. Then anger, outrage. How could somebody do this? What kind of person? Then fear. What if I’d been home? What if they come back? A sense of violation. I didn’t know this person. They left traces, like an opened can of Coke that I didn’t know I had. Maybe it was from…