He heard the woman in one of the seats in First Class say, “Really, there’s nothing I can think of that’s more ridiculous than a trilobite. I mean, just who do they think they’re dealing with?”
That being more than enough of that, he crammed his earbuds firmly back in place.
At fifty-two, the man – who, for reference, was seated in the middle aisle, one row in front of the bomb — could afford to sit in First Class but loathed the people in First Class. He remembered stories of Paul Neumann buying all the seats around his, for privacy. This man didn’t have the adoring fans problem, but he sympathized.
His son kept getting little cancers.
The man spent several minutes familiarizing himself with the touchscreen, deciding what rate the coffee should be coming.…
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These sunflowers
are the most gorgeous
I have ever seen.
We bought them
at the farmers’ market—
$25 is a fortune,
but we didn’t realize
until they were
already in our hands.
Now they sit firmly
in this one-off vase
created by an artist
we especially admired.
A wedding present.…
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Sarah only drinks whiskey when she grades. She is otherwise not allowed. By herself. By her friends. Sarah, you become such an asshole when you drink whiskey, they say. It is true; they are true friends.
Sarah drinks whiskey because she has to sometimes not be in love with her students. Because she has to sometimes not be in love with herself. The end of the semester is hard, she tells herself. The end of life is hard, she remembers the hospice nurse saying. They took turns feeding her father morphine and little sips of whiskey and now and then the tiniest nibs of dark chocolate.
Sarah has had to explain to some students that failure is not death. Or is not a big death. Or is not the big death.…
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Despite all his sweetness, Comet has never been a snuggly dog. So on that night in March when he nuzzles his head against me on the couch, I smile and boop his nose and rub his ears and relish in the moment. He is, after all, thirteen years old, and I know our time is limited.
As with most things in life, I had no idea exactly how limited these moments would be. Within a month, Comet has stopped eating. There are other messy warning signs that something is wrong, so my husband and I get him to the vet around the same time as our local government enforces mandatory lockdowns in an effort to curb the virus that is knocking on our doors. It is nerve-wracking enough worrying about your fur baby, but waiting in the car while the masked vets and techs do their work makes it even more upsetting.…
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It was not the first time she had stood before a window, waiting. A year ago, or perhaps more, she had watched through the tall glass panes in her room as she and her parents had arranged, but that was at the private hospital a hour’s drive away where you could have your own room and showers but now she was in the big public hospital in the most run-down part of her city and they couldn’t afford to give each patient their own room. And so it was three beds to a room, no shower, and that was fine, just different.
She had been here for weeks. It may have been well over a month already—she had stopped keeping track. But then her brother’s birthday rolled around, and she wanted to gift him something.…
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A straw poll was taken and the leading candidate is Getting lost in someone else’s dreams.
A surprising, distant second was Taking out the trash barefoot in a Midwest snowstorm. It
seems frostbite complements of a frozen Fargo tundra isn’t the challenger one might
think. Something about living out someone else’s aspirations deeply resonated within
the voters. When asked why she selected that, a middle-aged, single woman who
directs Hallmark movies said, I couldn’t stand the guilt I’d feel knowing this fantasy isn’t
mine. An octogenarian who enjoys days of Dominoes and Bonanza marathons
confided, It’s just not right. Not everyone imagines tending to the Ponderosa alongside Little Joe
and Hoss. I understand the dynamics of being stuck in a world rooted in a make-believe
where the fiction is written without the protagonist in mind.…
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The thin man was done. He smirked and turned, whistling as he strolled down the tiled floors and hallway. He pushed through the double doors, and I did as told: the important parts were bagged, and the loose edges were joined with needle and thread. Then came the sponge and the scrubbing. The refuse was incinerated, the knives and pans cleaned with soap and water, and the whole thing rolled away under a sheet.
On my way back from the cooler, I saw Harvey walk into the tiled room, stopping at the long countertop. He made an entry in the log book, his dark brown forearms bulging above blue latex gloves as he wrote. After closing and replacing the book, he looked over. “Got another call; it’ll be here soon.”…
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