Stories
Sundowning
“I can’t tell much difference between these trees anymore,” Joe Dilton muttered as he scanned the Western Pennsylvania backwoods that surrounded him. The old man smoked a cigarette, ashing where he pleased, trying to make sense of the landscape as the sky and earth squeezed him with each breath. “Used to be better about it when I didn’t know there were so much.”
Joe’s son, Charlie, was entranced by the herds of clouds that settled in the pink sky of early summer, thin wisps of smoke skewered by branches of white oak and maple seemingly melting in the twilight. He watched the fading sun, the translucent moon, wishing that he could dissolve somewhere in between the horizon and the peaks of distant mountains.
And the World Was Wide Open
The young cashier peered down into the open register at the neat rows of bills and coins, the latter of which were all pooled loosely together in a space far left. From that morning he could recall the inventory: seven one-dollar bills, one five, three tens, two twenties, and a dollar and a half in change. There had been four customers that whole day and they’d all paid with credit.
Standing across from him now was a man with his left hand stuffed into his jacket pocket. The man forced a menacing smile and couldn’t stop licking his lips. Under the pale glow of the fluorescents his dirty blonde hair shone like fake gold.
“Now,” the man said, “don’t be a dummy or a hero.”
I Am Coming to Asheville to Kill You
The gun was in the passenger seat where I used to sit. It was rattling and the windows were rattling too because they were half-open. The gas tank was almost empty again, which seemed impossible. But the truth is, I’ve gotten poor at keeping track of time. The more I try, the more rows of teeth it grows. Some say this is normal but it doesn’t feel normal.
Running Against the Shadow
The studio lights burned bright, but the air felt heavy, thick with the weight of a story she was tired of telling. The anchor, a woman known for her steady composure, sat rigid behind the desk, jaw clenched so tightly her words trembled at the edges. When the red “ON AIR” light blinked to life, her voice carried a controlled fury, low at first, but sharp like a blade drawn over stone. “Good evening,” she began, though nothing about her tone felt like evening warmth. “Tonight, Kenya has lost yet another woman, another daughter, another champion, to the hands of the man she once called husband.”
The Last Detail
It started with the grass clippings. I’d just finished mowing the front yard. True, the rows lacked the zigzag symmetry of the adjacent lawns, and the edges were a bit on the shaggy side—I hadn’t yet invested in one of those trimmer gizmos—but I was nonetheless pleased with my accomplishment.