I started collecting secrets when I was six.
All those appendixes floating in jars on their bedside tables like grotesque lava lamps.
HOW I disappeared was up to me.
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.