Everything is easy for a man who spent his boyhood separating hides from rabbits like pulling off a tube sock.
We got the call about Shimon on a Friday night. No one answered the phone, of course. Not on Shabbos.
My writing isn’t governed by many rules, but I have a policy holds that when something falls easily out of the sky onto the page, I keep it, dressing up its impact from the landing, if needed.
Side effects may include: Weariness. Apathy. Headaches that worsen with light and sound. Anxiety on Sunday mornings.
The unraveling of Pa’s certainty, the wobble in his hands, the quaver in his voice, speak of things I cannot acknowledge.
Can we speak for anyone else? Are writers only ever speaking for themselves? Always never speaking? Always always speaking?
Dad used to sing about bugs and windshields and fools in love. He’d said that’s what he was, a fool for Mom, that’s why he got mad sometimes.
Flow through the asana. Focus on yourself; let the world melt away. Well, okay, maybe offer her a pacifier.
Sarah saw the stopper in her husband’s neck before detecting the one puncturing her own.
1. I discovered his lifeless body on the dusty bookshelf beside his bowl. I scooped him up and put him in the water where he sank to the bottom. The […]