She has carelessly parked her car, not parallel, but at a slight angle at the side of the highway. She is parked on an incline, where whatever is on the other side, after the peak, is invisible to her; an unknown picture that will only reveal itself once she reaches the crest and starts her descent. It could be a thing of beauty, like when your vehicle is winding through the mountains, going up a steep hill, the car’s hood higher than your line of sight and then, suddenly, your body reaches the crest, and spectacular beauty is laid out before you: crisp silvery snow-capped mountains, a rolling river winding at their feet with shivering birch leaves on trunks of clean, white bark at the river’s edge.…
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When I heard about the government finding non-human biologics, my first thought was whether aliens would find me attractive. I fare pretty well with a specific type of woman, the hipster artsy girl. Often owns a cat or two, regrets none of her tattoos when she should regret them all, and talks way too much about authors whose books I can’t get past chapter two. My type is the blonde cheerleader from movies, often called Stacy, and driving a convertible VW Bug. Unfortunately, I’m the furthest thing there is from who they go for: muscles, a scruffy face, and a cool swagger resulting from a belief they can do anything. My type could be aliens, but I’ll have to wait until Congress approves the release of visual evidence.…
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My city is not a city, no more than a bare town that’s slowly growing. It’s got a Bi-Mart and a Safeway and a McDonalds—people never go there, though, just Big Burger across the street. It’s been here longer, and it’s not a chain, and my people here don’t like change.
The folks who live here aren’t slow by any means, but we like slow. We like watching the world subtly change around us, and we like taking our time as we live our life. We remark on the sunset every night, saying things like can’t believe it’s still light out! for half the year and can’t believe it’s already dark out! for the other half, accordingly.
It’s a town surrounded by the countryside, and there’s the great big Coleman ranch that’s got cows and horses and other animals.…
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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.…
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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.…
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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.…
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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.…
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