So I’m sitting at the bar, looking for a cure for my writer’s block, when one walks through the front door.
At the time — late November, mid-week, mid-afternoon — I had only my trusty laptop and coffee for company. The Big Cheese Bar & Grille was certainly not Hemingway’s Good Cafe on the Place St.-Michel, but if I wasn’t here I’d probably have been at Starbucks
The sheriff was coming on seventy years old, and living with his widowed daughter, Sandra Mae Bragg, the past few years, her always talking about good old times with her dear, sweet Francis, made him long for something lost himself.
“We were high school sweethearts,”
The hospital smelled like gauze and sterility. Beanie busted through the door of the delivery room wearing the blue backwards gown that flapped in the back whenever it wanted, and the shower cap and booties. He put his hat on over the shower cap. His walk had a new swagger as he sauntered down the long white and gray hallway to the nursery
One point. One stinking point. Sure everyone else was happy, but I am not a big fan of basketball. To everyone else winning the conference championship meant our first trip ever to the national tournament. To me, it meant another week or so of playing contemptuous and insignificant pop tunes
Yes, I caused it to light up.
When it comes to harming a thing, I suppose, I was always one to go to it. But listen to me. It weren’t done out of meanness. It was done out of my own disregard
His smallness was exacerbated by the wide-brimmed straw hat that was crooked low over his face. At first, I thought it was black, but the sun beat down and I shielded my eyes and at once it was red. A deep ruby. So deep that it turned black once more. He clutched at his cane
On Saturdays, Opal Pratt went to the Piggly Wiggly in nearby Vicksburg, Mississippi to buy groceries. On Sunday mornings, she went to church and sat alone on the back row. On Mondays, she did her small batch of laundry
He’s in that little house. He’s been living in there alone for over forty years, since his wife died. What does he do in there?
“The Smallest House in the World!” Uncle Shamus used to announce as we slowed before the clearing in the pines along Route 27. “He’s in there
A flat tire forced Jenny to walk the four blocks down Kramer Street to The Continental. She’d driven by the diner a thousand times but never once thought to stop in; it didn't look like much from her passing view at forty miles per hour
When my father was eight years old, his father told him that fireflies were carrying off the soul of his mother piece by piece. They were on the front steps of their farmhouse looking over their wide, full fields of barley, sugar beets, and tulips