Great writers speak for us.
On Writers
Billy’s Breakfast
The man was, Molly’s mother might have whispered, “flying low.” He stood by the counter of the restaurant with his zipper down, dressed in a khaki safari suit better suited for tracking rhinos in the bush than eating breakfast in Boston in February. Under his stool lay a violin case covered with stickers that were peeling off. Molly couldn’t tell how old the man was, early forties, maybe.
Stuck at Work
She frowned. Her imagination was too good today – she was walking too slowly. It felt like her feet were actually sticking to the floor. Shaking her head, she tried to take another step. And stopped.
Her foot wasn’t coming up. She lifted with all her might but it wouldn’t move. She looked down and let out a scream.
Her right foot had sunken into the floor up to the ankle. She bent down and grabbed her calf, pulling it upwards with all her strength, but her foot wouldn’t budge.
Autumn Sunday
Kin where kin are; The Armoury; Last Rights; Nota Bene; Playing in the Wind
Grandad read me manga, tales rendered in Chinese ideograms that made no sense, on the settee exploring a black-white world, antics of a time-travelling genie-bot.
The children we won’t have; How my life compares to that of Bonnie Parker; Bob Lucy’s apple juice; An evening with Messier 13; Tri tri try
I wake at 3:00 a.m. and fry two eggs until they burn. My husband sleeps upstairs. He used to photograph my eyelids, knuckles, fine bones of my pelvis.