All my life, everything had happened with the beginning wrapped in the shroud of its own end.
This was the difference for a mother, every goddamn thing reminded you of your children.
Bad cries were things she hid. They happened in the Pontiac.
She can’t do it; she understands that clear as day. She only just met the man—what, an hour ago?—and she’s not sure he even knows her name.
The first time I see the UFO is via a 10-second video on twitter.
This story took twenty years to write. At the end a diver goes missing. If you want to stop now, that’s about it.
She was dead, yes, but they didn’t talk about it.
Everything is wrong, thought William. This is how people die.
Lines shift. Lines change. Boundaries are redrawn. Whole new worlds, created out of bits of the past, from what is passed forward, accepted again, taken and renewed. This, too, is an act of faith, the going forward, the continuing on.
“Let’s go smoke up,” Tripp told me, but I knew what he wanted.