Sunday, January 25, 2015

869. The way the grass bends

The grass rippled in geometric waves.
The grass rippled, buffeted by the rush of helicopter blades.
Here and there, more helicopters made more ripples.
The heroes and the cowards were all going to hang.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

868. Everybody's mother is already at church

They're all there, row after row.
None of them are going to whisper through the sermon, but they're casting sideways glances.
They don't all know what you did, yet.
But, they will before the coffee cools.

Friday, January 2, 2015

867. Clean sheets

In practice, we all have a conception story.
There is some moment where our parents connect in a biblical and biological equation whose sum is us.
As a parent, you want to be able to tell this story.
This, my mother says, is why I should clean my linens more frequently.

Monday, December 29, 2014

866. The first battle of Hazel Street

You've never seen people so desperate - or so angry.
The two sides clashed under the few street lights still shining.
Where blood pooled, it was black as oil.
This was the new normal.

Monday, December 8, 2014

865. I'm pretty sure Alec Baldwin owes me fifty dollars

Fame: that most important and honest of modern measurements.
I want to live in that world, to breathe that rarefied air.
That's why I loaned Alec Baldwin fifty dollars.
Either him, or a man on the street who looked a little like him and spoke with sufficient gravitas.

Friday, December 5, 2014

864. Variations on the word no

"Maybe we'll make love this weekend?" I asked over the folded edge of the newspaper.
"Maybe," she said.
She was digging at the edge of a grapefruit with a spoon.
"Maybe," she said again with a segment of grapefruit in her mouth.

Thursday, December 4, 2014

863. Mean City

When I was a boy, my sainted mother owned a pair of brass knuckles.
I can still remember them - the texture - when she'd press them against my face.
"Nobody likes a crybaby," she'd say.
The metal bites against my knuckles as I ball them up into a fist.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

862. We're the face of the revolution, darling

The fire blazed hot, hot, hot against the face of the girl with the pigtails.
She could feel the heat of her burning home right down to her insides.
When she smoothed the pleats of her dress, bits of ash scattered to the wind.
Her legs dangled absently, clanging against the metal of the robot's shoulder as they lumbered toward the city.

Monday, November 24, 2014

861. We're all buckled up, you and me

The girl beside me at the coffee shop was arty - if I'm using that right.
She carried a backpack like the one I'd owned in sixth grade.
It was green with several buckles.
I tried to strike up a conversation about the bag, but it didn't work.

Monday, November 3, 2014

860. The difference between saying it and meaning it

All hail the noble white lie.
These artful fallacies, these tasteful frauds are keepers of the peace.
They are the single civilizing force that keep all of us in friendly relations.
Because at the end of the day, there's nothing so dangerous as an honest man - like this one.