No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. It's Just One Planet. But There Are Many Stories.
She’s still not picking up the phone. What could have happened? Would it even be possible to get seriously ill less than twenty-four hours after exposure? But what if she caught something earlier in the week, when we walked past that man who clearly had a bad cold? Or when she opened the door to sign the receipt for a package she got in the mail? I’m getting nervous.
If he didn’t go out there, they’d start intuiting the truth: that he was approaching the same bridge Sid had crossed, the one that connected strange to crazy. He’d long feared becoming “the new Sid.”
Yvette nodded. “I hear you. I’ll probably keep going, though. I like the doughnuts. And the structure. I really need the structure.” Her voice quavered then, holding back a sob. “The house is lonely without Jasper. Especially in the mornings. You’d think I’d miss him more at night, but it’s the mornings that get me. The way only my side of the bed is messed up. That just kills me.”
For twenty or so years, I wrote children’s books, largely because I lived in a house with children. When they grew up, I started writing short stories. I like the precision required, the necessity of focusing on small moments and quiet revelations.
She felt this wedding was a test, and as the late afternoon sun blasted down at her she had the pathetic thought that as long as she kept drinking she’d be okay.
I came to writing "late", in my early thirties, though writing fiction had always been a dream, one which for years I shoved to the back of my mind and the bottom of my soul as something that was impractical and indulgent. Also something I’d probably not “succeed” at.