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.
There is a group of us that meets every two weeks, give or take a month, in a low-lit bar attached to a liquor store.
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.
I’m finally coming around to pay attention to the shapes of stories and why that matters.
“Let’s go smoke up,” Tripp told me, but I knew what he wanted.
I didn’t conjure up how this would end before I allowed it to begin.
My brother is incredulous. “Did you know he wrote poetry?”
Everything is easy for a man who spent his boyhood separating hides from rabbits like pulling off a tube sock.