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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Something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of primary color, a sense of a person lurking just beyond peripheral vision. The gag reflex of strong perfume. When he spun around, nothing lurked outside his windows on Central Avenue, besides the ebb and flow of car traffic. Constant distraction right when he didn’t need it.
George Lynch had never suffered writer’s block before. He was a copywriter for hire. Wrote whatever needed to be said. Whatever paid. This project was different though. George had worked on a number of assignments for Judd McBrunt. And Judd insisted on calling, not texting, to further annoy and derail George’s train of thought. Yet he had to pick up. His office being the desk in an apartment in Bellington, a small city along California’s south coast.…
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Every afternoon she parked and walked off at five past four, leaving the car for her ex-husband who lived opposite my office, her clothes changing as the trees changed, wrapped up as leaves fell, insulated under bare branches, exposed flesh returning with green’s return.
Skeletal trees appeared again. I watched her parking, expecting to see candelabra-tree shadows on her disappearing back; but she walked towards her ex-husband’s flat, the first time I had seen this, her arms swinging, back upright, intention gripping her face.
She entered her ex-flat. Then: SWERRAAAACCCC!
My work colleague looked at me.
“A car back-firing?” I offered.
“I didn’t hear a car,” Peter replied.
“OH MY GOD!” the ex-husband screamed. “OH MY GEAWWWDDD!!”
X’s voice flailed tentacle possibilities in my head. Our manager crossed the road and knocked on X’s door.…
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Today, Casy is wearing soft green slacks, the color of elephant ear plants. Her thin hair is pulled back in a sensible tail. However, as always, she has found a way to add bits of personality to her business outfit: a gold pin clipped near her hairline, the locket strung around her neck. It is her mother’s. She wears it every day, even though it’s made of copper and is leaving a subtle green stain across her collarbone. Her mom died four months ago tomorrow, and the pain has not lessened.
I haven’t seen her mom. Like her daughter, she always had things in order and never had regrets.
I watch as Casy walks towards the bus station, her strides firm and direct. The angle of her platform boots makes her lean back when the road slopes downwards.…
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Father, you don’t need to ask how long it’s been since my last confession. You know and I know the truth. It’s been a week. But what a week, Father! Does it involve another trip to that place? Yes, it does. But a lot more than that Father. And that woman? Yes, she makes another appearance. Probably her last though. I really think I’ve managed to get her out of my system this time. It didn’t involve too much sinning. Just a little. Which is why I’m here.
It starts with my Uncle Errol. I’m not blaming him. He just happens to live near that place. Yes, Father, the San Sussy. Not to be confused with the Sugar Bunker next door. I’m not good enough to go there.…
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I remember as a young girl when it was possible to behold a million stars at night, now I’m lucky if I observe only six at any given time. But that was then, when I lived far away by the sea and the stars burst throughout the cosmos as far as the eye could see. Now I live the city dweller’s lot, with artificial light impairing my view of the universe. Excessive use of manufactured luster with polluting glare, skyglow, trespass and clutter shifts my attention is shifted towards a neighbor when lights are on and shadows are no longer cast. I see them roving about and I wonder what goes on behind their walls where I cannot hear their words or sense their thoughts.
For instance, the family next door in the apartment facing my kitchen window.…
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