You gotta get a good rock. A big one. But not huge. Come down the hill to the end of our grass. There. An “X” marks the spot — we’ve got lotsa rocks around it. It’s not an “X” really, but mommy says the place is “precious,” so it’s kinda like treasure. So you grab one rock. It’s smooth, fits in your hand, and it’s not too heavy.
We need paint. Come up the hill to my house. Shh! Mommy’s being quiet in her chair. We can get some nail polish off the dresser in her room. It’s a kind of paint. Mommy won’t mind. She doesn’t see me when it’s her quiet time. Look, here’s a good red one beside the picture frame. The photo’s kinda old.…
...continue reading
My daughter has a lot of demands when I want her to go to bed. She’s supposed to be in bed at eight, but I usually don’t fall asleep until after midnight. I give her enough attention during the day; you’d think she’d be tired enough to fall asleep when she should. But no.
I put her down at eight, but she asks me for a glass of water at eight-twenty. It has to be a clean glass, and it has to have the right amount of water. If I don’t do it right, she gets cranky.
At eight fifty-two, she’ll ask me to read her a story from the leather-bound tome on the stand in the corner. It has lots of stories, but she only wants to hear the same one.…
...continue reading
It was a bitter cold night in March 2015 when a certain sage-grouse female’s (SGF) life changed forever. That night she was designated “SGF4601” and thereafter, her movements would be closely monitored for the rest of her life. After being gently captured, she was fitted with a GPS “backpack” and released. Until her death four years later, her life was scrutinized by biologists, adding to our understanding of sage-grouse behaviors and their habitat. –Morelli, “A Year in the Life of an Idaho Sage-Grouse”
When I awoke, I was different. Or the world I lived in had changed. Or both.
Something was behind me, over me, on me. I could not see it, but I could feel it covering me so I knew it was there—something with a thin, hard-edged shape that I could not slip free of or away from, try as I might.…
...continue reading
Mary was sitting across from me, her fingers touching the top of her water glass, the sides coated with condensation. Not using a coaster. Not that it mattered, the table topped with pocks.
“Is it going to snow?” she asked. “I know you can’t say for sure, but have you heard if it will?”
I finished chewing my scrambled eggs and poked at my hash browns. “Not supposed to,” I said.
“You what?”
Louder, I said, “Not supposed to.”
She drank from her water glass. “I have a long trip ahead of me.”
“It won’t snow.” The hash browns were perfect; golden with a hint of butter and the crispness factor was optimal. “What time are you leaving?”
In the booth behind Mary were an elderly couple, the kind of people who likely came to this place frequently, maybe every morning.…
...continue reading
There is a long, barren highway connecting the coastal town of San Marco to the farmland. In the morning, trucks full of produce, dead animals and supplies travel south, bringing provisions to the city’s restaurants and markets. There is a gap in the highway’s guardrails where an unpaved path runs through. Kissing that unpaved path, on a slim stretch of grass, is the home of Mrs. Archimedes.
I used to work in San Marco washing dishes at a seafood shack. The fishermen would sell their haul to the owner and spend the day trading stories at weathered picnic tables, trying to entice me with drinks and company when I came out to clear their plates. They’d offer to show me the nightlife after work, and I’d stay in the kitchen until they lost their patience.…
...continue reading
The four boys stood on the concrete former pontoon outlined by the mountains or hills on the horizon. I couldn’t tell you which they were from my position on the beach. Surrounding them, sat at their feet, were other young men and women. But the four boys who stood tall above the rest seemed to be in a group of their own. While the others occasionally jumped into the sea that was garishly sprinkled with diamonds of the type you’d find decorating the cheap bags on Avenue Guy de Maupassant, the boys fought.
Though mainly just shadows and outlines in the heat of the midday sun, I could see a tall one, a fat one, a shorter one and a fourth of normal size for a 13 or 14 year old.…
...continue reading
I met a man fresh out of prison once. I was in a bar downtown round midnight. He walked in and ordered a scotch, then another. I didn’t say anything, but I could tell he wanted to talk. You don’t walk into a bar alone to avoid people.
He got to reminiscing before too long. At first he wasn’t talking to anybody in particular, then he started looking at me, then before too long I was the only one he saw.
He told me he’d been in prison five years, but not to worry because he was innocent. Most people inside are innocent, he said – except, of course, the ones that aren’t.
Most of what he said, though, had to do with wrists. He told me people never rub their wrists when the cuffs come off, when they’re thrown in the cells or leaving the system. …
...continue reading