I am a writer—aspiring, published, rejected, accepted, regarded, discarded, fictional.
You dial the clinic’s phone number and press send, wondering if life from this day forward holds nothing but a death sentence.
He wouldn’t make a conscious move either way but stood there tying the truth and anti-truth together.
“She is battery operated,” Angel, the online sales person, had explained when Isabelle had placed her order. “But you’ll never know it.”
What happened to our sister would always be at the center of our lives. My family, the four of us now, would be planets forever revolving around that moment.
It’s one of those winter nights that makes you think about moving to Florida, telling the Midwest to go screw itself and holing up beside the Gulf for the rest of your life.
But come to think of it, to hell with that beauty. Beauty that is masked in shrouded anger is nothing worth living with.