“Drinking drivers/Nothing worse/They put the quart/before the hearse/
Burma-Shave” Series of roadside signs by Burma Shave, 1950s
In the driveway sat the 1950 Buick Roadmaster Estate Station Wagon, its toothy grille like an angry steel smile, proud of its dynaflow automatic transmission, and wooden body side panels. The back of the car was packed with suitcases for a trip to my grandmother’s funeral five-hundred miles away. Dad was intent on making the trip there in one day, go to the service, and return home the following morning, so we could, as he put it, “get it over with.” When it was time to get in the car, my mother and father sat on the front bench seat and my little sister, older brother and I sat in back.…
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My daddy didn’t teach me how to hold my keys between my knuckles or scare off a cat-caller. Coming from the country, I never had to worry about them; strange men didn’t make a habit of lurking out in our woods. We did have chickens, though, and they were high on the menu for a lot of mean critters. So, my daddy saw it fit that my self defense lessons consisted of which color of bear to run from, which snake bites will send you to the hospital, and how to fight off a coyote.
Thumb in the eye, grab the muzzle, knee on the throat.
Once I loaded my life into a u-haul, I didn’t think I’d need those lessons anymore. But I was gonna have to learn all the standard stuff that girls my age had years of practice with– how to use pepper spray and not get it in your eyes, how to break free when someone grabs you from behind, that you need to yell “fire” instead of “ help” when someone assaults you.…
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Again the scent
Of wet fur and burnt grass
Returns to this humble abode
The wolfman is crashed on my couch,
curled ball that twitches and growls
In slumber, a comfortable comforting
Old friend, though strange even to I
Who rests by the window
Empty wine glass in hand,
Taking in the music of the night
An hour will pass
And he’ll leap to his feet
Alive! We’re Alive!
We’re not old news
Time to hit the town
And spread some fear!
Time to crash the club
To Monster Mash
Or at least
Hit up McDonalds…
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I am the bad seed who chose where to sprout,
alongside these meadows. I moved again
despite your need for me. When I came out
West without one look toward where I had been
it was because the things that choked me—worse
than thistles or stones, all the ordnance thrown,
your savage son waging unholy wars
in the memory of Cain. But here I own
my square, honest piece of the well-worn dream
one half I’ll mow and leave the rest to woods
enough room to take root by friends who seem
quite happy I am close. Who thought I could
grow strong beside these windswept stalks of grain?
Where bravery yields a remedy for pain.
– D.E. Kern…
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It’s mid-May, and after a long slog of last-minute client requests and petty politics in the office, tax season is finally over. Tomorrow is my chance to fly away to a five-day vacation with no schedule and no responsibilities. Double tall mocha in hand (including whipped cream), I find my gate and practically dance down the concourse to board a late morning non-stop, Seattle to Philly. Tonight, I’ll meet my friend Louise and after visiting overnight with her husband and twins, the two of us are off to a three-day splurge in New York: museums, a play, window shopping, bargain hunting, and dinner with an old friend in Brooklyn.
Puffy white clouds suffuse the sky as I settle in next to a middle-aged man and his cute, pig-tailed daughter, who clutches a well-worn teddy bear and rests sleepily against his shoulder.…
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After a record-breaking season of rain, the five-year mega drought in California was over. Atmospheric rivers and bomb cyclones rolled inland, brought steel gray skies, charcoal clouds, and torrents of water. Snow wrapped mountaintops, and for a brief moment, it seemed all would be well. But the relentless sun grew hotter than ever before. The snow melted and the streams, rivers, and waterfalls gushed to the valley below.
And there emerged a ghost lake, Tulare Lake, once the largest lake west of the Mississippi. Even as the rain poured and the snow melted and the valley filled with water, Chris’s dad’s memory receded, plunged beneath his own opaque waters, the twists and cascades of plaque crusted amyloids and neurofibrillary tangles. Each day, his personality dulled into a blurrier shadow of who he had been.…
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Some time ago, while walking up 8th Avenue in the black night hours, I nonchalantly crossed the empty road, heading for home. What seemed like out of nowhere, a car came barreling at me. I froze in the middle of the street. The driver passed so close, the door handle brushed against me. The rear tires locked, causing the car to skid and fan towards the far curb, scratching the paint of a parked Chrysler before careening back across the lanes, swiping another parked car and losing one of its hubcaps. Without stopping, the huge American-made sedan accelerated and sped out of sight.
At the time I thought to myself: had that car crashed into me, it would have been a hit and run, without witnesses. …
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