On Monday, he had a first date with a man he’d been talking to for about two weeks. They met at a park a few hours before sunset. They talked about themselves, their childhoods, their interests and intentions. They had dinner together. They shared a drink. They made jokes, and felt completely and utterly attracted to one another. They enjoyed their time so much that they ended the night inside each other’s mouths. Laughing, smiling, holding onto one another, happy. By the time Marcel got back to his apartment, he knew they were in love. He fell asleep thinking of their future together.
On Tuesday, Marcel woke up to a phone call from the police that both of his parents had died. They’d been attacked in their sleep by an intruder the night before.…
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The life cycle of the salmon is a common topic in schools around Washington state. Karen learned about their fatal migration growing up in the Skagit Valley, around the same time her husband Jake studied their Columbia River struggles in Vancouver. Karen remembered painting the salmon species of her choice in fourth grade. She’d painted a sockeye, with its distinctive humped back, garish red sides and hooked jaw. The final product resembled an exaggerated caricature more than the actual creature. Her mother had hung it on the refrigerator for a season before relegating it to a box in the attic with other touchstone school projects, essays, awards and other art projects. Karen wondered if her sockeye was still there.
For Jake, these annual studies of the salmon included multiple field trips to the Bonneville Dam fish ladder and the hatcheries along the Columbia’s tributaries.…
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Samodiva: A Bulgarian folktale¹
Once upon a time there lived a young beauty, whose name was Samodiva. She was a princess in a small kingdom, tucked away among the enchanted hills of mountain Emos. Her father was king Charismat. The king was wise and was much loved by the people, who had long lived in peace and prosperity under his rule. The mother of the princess, queen Delikacia, was as beautiful as the fertile valleys in the kingdom in spring. Delikacia was a woman kind and delicate and she died giving birth to her daughter. Charismat’s heart was full of sorrow but he poured out all his remaining love and kindness on the little princess.
When she grew up, stories of her incredible beauty travelled beyond the borders of her kingdom.…
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The door slammed shut and woke Mere. The sun was already setting. She’d slept for over an hour. Sleeping for two, she thought as she rubbed her eyes.
Patricio threw his coat across the couch. He rubbed his hands. “Cold out there. Low 40s and not even Turkey Day yet.” He reached under her blankets. “Warm in here.” He touched her neck.
Mere yiped and sat up. “Oh my God, Patricio. Knock it off.”
“Touchy.” He collapsed on to the couch.
Mere pulled her legs up to her chest, so he wouldn’t sit on her.
“Long day at work.” Patricio rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Ten-hour shift. A car accident. A heart attack. Quiet down at the casinos.” He reached for Mere’s hand. “What’d you do all day?”…
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Turns out, when you die, you are judged by a council of dogs. If you find yourself surprised by this, I challenge you to think of a better system.
They sit on high, in judgment upon you, from behind an elevated white marble desk.
You know their names at once, because they have personalized name plates in front of them — along with open notebooks and capless pens, plus a bowl of water each, and platters piled high with bacon bits and bite-size chunks of filet mignon. The dogs sit with dignity on cushioned chairs. There are seven of them: Pride, Greed, Wrath, Envy, Lust, Gluttony, and Sloth.
Sloth and Wrath are eating, and Envy sips at her water. Gluttony, notably, is not touching his food.…
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She sits across, lounges across really, the length of the wide red sofa chair. Her calves, ankles, feet dangle over the armrest. Her head and neck scrunch, xylophone style, against the other side. She plays cats’ cradle with a loose string of yarn she found in the apartment lobby. She hasn’t paid attention to the last half hour of the movie. A Western, her friend recommended. It is number 47 on Ramona’s must watch movies list.
She doesn’t watch the movies in order. She actually had never noticed they were numbered until tonight. She had watched another Western last weekend, Dances with Wolves, and felt like she should stick to the genre. She hadn’t stuck to the genres before, either, but she had also never seen a Western before.…
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Oliver surveyed his beloved street from his front porch, a glass of lemonade in his right hand, an easy smile etched onto his boyish face. It was one of those delightfully crisp days in early fall, with a sky so clear that a person might have seen all the way to Chicago, if only the world was flat. Setting down the lemonade, Oliver unrolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt. With evening fast approaching, the autumn chill had begun to bite. Off to his left, Lake Michigan made a glittering appearance—a sun-speckled artwork framed by the street’s townhomes. The charcoal smell of the evening air filled Oliver with a pleasant nostalgia for his childhood. But Oliver did not wish to be young again—he was having far too much fun being twenty-seven.…
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