“Dad, you have to stop. Your jokes are terrible. They aren’t even funny!” “I know,” he said. “I don’t tell them because they’re funny. I tell them because it’s funny to watch you squirm.”
#85
“I’ve never really left home,” she promised. “Home travels with me. In my heart, of course, but also in my hair, my clothes. The scent of ginger and soap, curry and smoke, and you.”
#84
“What if you’re wrong!” he insisted. “What if this happened because we secretly wanted it to happen?” She didn’t move, didn’t try to meet his gaze. “Be honest,” she whispered. “Was it worth it?”
#83
It was mindless work, but Anthony didn’t mind. There was comfort in its rhythm. Smile. Listen. Nod. Make an empty promise that the regency would look into their complaint right away. Dismiss them. Repeat.
#82
She felt it as soon as the tethers retracted. Her rotation was off but there was no way to correct it midair. With a sickening thud, she hit the surface and blacked out.
#81
Catatonic, he stared at the lumps in his oatmeal. The plan was careening out of control, tearing through his life like a landslide. But he didn’t care. He didn’t even bother to hold on.
#80
She paused, coldly gazing at the crowds beyond the dais. She was small, but the submissive deference of her guards and acolytes made clear to all that it was she who ruled this place.
#79
When the last Puntum tree died, the town gathered to mourn the loss. The sheriff, still frail from the ravages of the virus, sat in the dust, crying as he slowly chopped it down.
#78
She shook her head. None of the men behind the glass were familiar. As she turned to leave, she glanced at the officer by the door and felt her blood freeze. It was him.
#77
The man sat in a corner, sobbing quietly. Agatha turned away and sighed. “It is a terrible thing,” she said, slowly lowering her head into her hands, “to realize the price you have paid.”
#76
I board the train at 33rd Street, waiting impatiently for Astor Place where you’ll enter the train like a Green Line goddess, filling the car with your smile and the scent of your soap.
#75
As the child thrashed and moaned, the old woman gently took the mother’s hand. “Don’t fret, love. It’s her hymn of passing. We don’t understand the words, but we feel them just the same.”
#74
Nobody noticed. Fragments of broken code often cycled through the system several times before being filtered from the data stream. So they continued undetected, slipping like silent spiders across the tangled web of ether.
#73
The shadowy figure produced a thin, metallic rod and hastily inserted it into a hole in the alley wall. Silently, the bricks began to retract; folding in upon themselves to reveal a jagged archway.
#72
She finished labeling the tissue sample and hit ‘send.’ As she waited for the next image to load, she nodded her head in time to the vintage Guns N Roses wailing in her earbuds.
#71
He sighed, willing away the exhaustion as he stared at the ramshackle building ahead of him. The faded sign was barely visible in the starlight. “Welcome to the Koastal Kabins Motel.” He sighed again.
#70
The track finished playing. Jamin looked at the pale, freckled kid in front of him, so obviously out of place in this shrine to the hip-hop greats, and asked, “Did you write that song?”
#69
Her footsteps in the hallway. Her key in the lock. Her look of exhaustion, erased by surprise. Then shock. Then anger. Her eyes find his and wipe the expectant smile from his paint-speckled face.
#68
The wind tore through the valley with a force that bordered on malevolence. It brought no rain, no relief; only thick clouds of choking dust that pushed its way under doors and into nostrils.
#67
He looked at his life’s work extending across the desk like the debris field around a crater. Tidy, organized stacks quickly devolved into haphazard, ash covered piles as they spread away from his seat.