I had only been looking for an empty box.
I had only been looking for an empty box.
Ahead, a wide road of surging behemoths. KFC stands tall opposite.
Yeller doesn’t come out often but when he does, I can hear him coming.
I wait with bated breath when the head crowns; there’s no going back now.
A cramp grips my lower abdomen. The lift is down. Uber overcharged me.
Summers spent at the lake included trips into town, which was filled with colorful cafes and sprightly stores stacked like a children's library full of vibrant books.
I found his obituary fifty years after I left our mill town for college.
We missed the 2008 window when LGBTQ couples could marry; it quickly closed.
I can't turn on my faucet. Do I wash plates in the bathtub?
Her fist exploded against my shoulder, then receded with the promise of another detonation, another physical aberration from the usual verbal, mental, and emotional landmines.
Every morning, she is there, sitting on the old, rusting clifftop bench, staring out at the ocean.
Cleaning out closets, I come across an old bag I forgot I ever had, brown with brass studs.
At sixteen, your once-round face is sharply angled, boyhood carved away.
People pack the house. Murmured conversations. Time suspended.
Heavy rain became an unexpected companion on my first visit to Mount Teide.
We walk to a nearby pond to skate wearing our rubber boots, as we don’t have money for skates.
As our professor explains the mouse euthanasia protocol, my lab partner leans over, whispering to me, “Why do they keep calling it ‘sacrificing?’”
Impatient and expectant, we waited all weekend for Arthur to proclaim his presence.
In under a minute, they rolled out the huge tent and covered the fallen horse.
I’m about to kiss my son’s forehead, planting sweet dreams, when he turns as though struck.