Beneath the stark glare of a harsh bathroom bulb, he had no problem locating crow’s feet and frown lines and the three horizontals etched in his forehead. Red blotches and brown skin discolorations stood out like warning signs on a road under construction. But this was no work in progress. This was the canvas he was left with after sixty-three years of struggle, success and whatever it was that had come after that.
The feature that wasn’t as obvious visually, the thing that was more difficult to find, was that elusive element called dignity. Surely it was still there. It must be, he reasoned. Hidden behind the time and the mileage and the unrelenting belief that a man shouldn’t be judged by what he did, but rather by how well he did it. …
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Before sunrise on January 4, 1909, Frank Ulysses Grant was up and eager to start his day. Over the New Year’s weekend, Frank’s thoughts turned to whether he should remain single or get married. On this day, he felt good about his decision to marry.
While dressing, the movement of his bare feet across the icy floors reminded him how cold Salt Lake gets in the winter. But, having grown up in the Midwest, the cold didn’t bother Frank. What’s more, the flat to gently rolling farmland where he once lived could not equal the majesty of the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains and the intense blue skies that often framed them.
Now dressed, Frank went over his plans for the day. In the morning, he needed to stop by his office to pick up a couple of mining claims and take them to the courthouse.…
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Rain was steadily beating against the windshield. Rain — one factor the travelers had not counted on. This was to be a weekend getaway to help Jessie and Scott repair their troubled relationship.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Jessie rolled her eyes at her partner.
“Of course. Besides, I know how to read a map.” Scott smiled.
“This road doesn’t look very well-traveled.”
After a few minutes without conversation, Scott said, “You may be right. Check that page again.”
Jessie reached under the seat, retrieving a worn red notebook: “Campers Guide to the Midwest.” A cardboard bookmark protruded from the book and she flipped to that page.
“Are we looking for ‘Courtney Campground’?”
“That’s the one. Read the directions.”
“Past Woodley, Missouri, on Route 24…”
“Wait a minute.…
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Their first train was streamlined, modern, and fast—an engineering marvel that streaked through the countryside in a blur. The French called it le train à grande vitesse, and when it ran, it was a source of pride, a symbol of innovation. But now, parked and abandoned at night, it appeared fragile, its stainless-steel skin muted by layers of snow. What was once a marvel now lay dormant, its sleek form buried beneath the weight of a winter storm.
The American couple sat inside a small, dimly lit café in the train station, lost in their own uncertainty, the air thick with the murmur of fellow travelers. They had been sipping wine for hours, their eyes glazed from the endless wait for the snow to relent.…
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A young man is screaming in my general direction as I walk down eighty second avenue. It is one thirty in the afternoon. I am heading to work. It is Friday. He says at the beginning of time no one needed a name, which I find to be somewhat interesting. He is wearing a torn flannel, torn jeans and three hats, each torn but the last. I am running late, and despite that fact I feel the urge to ask him about himself/how his day is going, but then I see that his tent is overflowing with torn cardboard, empty cans of beer, and a mess of other items indistinguishable from one another, so I change my mind. I avoid him. It occurs to me that I do not fear this man; however, I do fear the unbearable possibility that if I don’t get to work on time, today, or the next time I run late, no matter the cause, it could be only a few short weeks or months until I become him.…
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Rasputin was wasted again.
From a couch in the corner, I rubbed my eyes and watched, amazed, as he lifted another bottle and polished it off. He finished with a belch and a rub of his stomach. I downed a healthy hit from my own bottle. “And good morning to you, Father Grigori.” With Rasputin on one of his rages I felt it best to join him.
Even in the feeble morning light, the monk’s deep-set eyes shimmered with intensity. “And tell me. In all your wisdom. What’s good about it?” He knocked over several empties with a swift kick. Staggering from the couch he tripped over Ivan, who was sprawled at his feet. The monk lifted his cassock, and grinning idiotically, pissed on Ivan’s head.…
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When it’s time to end things, I plan to meet my girlfriend at the least respectable bar in town, and once I’ve set a time, I show up twenty minutes late. It’s easier to cut the cord when you start off on the wrong foot. If you can disappoint them before you show your face, they’ll pretty much do the work for you, and the breakup becomes effortless.
The first thing I do, when I strut inside as if I’m right on time, is order two pints at the bar before sliding into the booth where Gillian awaits me. She’s got that raised eyebrow of impatience and sits in a tight posture, as if the discomfort of sitting alone is suffocating her. She doesn’t have a drink in front of her, and I don’t ask if she wants one.…
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