Mumma says I must sit my straightest, let the doctor bend and stretch me even though it makes my muscles pulse. I understand that “wild” isn’t permitted here, only normal.
I ran and hid in the lush round evergreen on the corner before the moon came and the mothers called us in.
My Mum is getting shorter so I pull it down and look up “red-backed shrike” in the index. On page 42 there is a delicate watercolour of a grey-blue and brown male, sharp beak, vicious reputation.
I want to age like this river. Let the clay that surrounds me erode without judgement. Become so beautiful that no one will feel a need to ask about my origins.
I was doing what one does at a urinal in a Slamdance Film Festival party venue bathroom when a guy ran in yelling, "Everyone out! I gotta go!"
Not far from Edgcumbe Road, where pines offer their shade and scent, I meet a craggy snowbank that a homeowner failed to shovel early, when it was soft and new.
Mom and I trudge up the hill through the warm Kansas rain, lugging my possessions up two flights into my college suite. Dad sits in our van with the Colorado plates, eerily silent after a lifetime of telling me I’d be the one to make it to college.
I was alone, always alone now, and when the doorbell rang I went to answer it. I’d been expecting him but only found the emptiness of the dark night outside.
Shoes go in an evidence baggie, bright red suede shrouded in plastic.
“I sold another book.” Mom had persuaded another person to buy my novel.
She became distracted and let go of the carriage. It quickly rolled toward the water. Someone screamed in horror.
In the morning on my birthday, my mother texted “Happy Birthday.” Texting instead of calling … strange.
Like every sedan back then, the Fleet had a closed-in trunk. We decided to put it to good use.
I put my eye close to the glass half-filled with strawberry jam and pale orange cordial. Below the surface a handful of insects slumber eternal, imitating their ancient brethren encased in amber.
A chunky black snake with bright yellow splotches slithered through the grass towards me. Before the damn thing could slide up my leg, I ordered myself to run.
Climbing trees, skinning knees, falling off bikes, go-carting down hills, building things, breaking things, getting lost in the woods, and floating down rapids—everything was fair game until that time my brother and I tried a physics experiment.
I wanted forever. You thought you wanted forever.
I drive the coast road through my childhood and teenage years. When I reach the spot where I’m the one who makes the decisions, I pull over for a moment.
As a goof on a sweltering day in August ’73, my cousin Aldo tried to fry an egg on his brother Rocco’s beloved ’66 Mustang GT. It wasn’t hot enough; uncooked egg oozed over the Mustang’s candy-apple-red lacquer.
Mugs slide around cabinets with the ship’s roll, yaw, pitch.