by Gabriella Herkert
‘We’re gonna take the car to the store.’
Allie’s not askin’. She never asks. She just tells. It’s okay ‘cuz she has good ideas, but then we get in trouble. I don’t like being in trouble. She says I’m a scaredy cat baby but I’m not. I just don’t like it when Mommy gets mad ‘cuz we’re in trouble.
(read on…)
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Ed Peaco
One summer night in the not-too-distant but long-forgotten past, when Max Headroom was a cult hit on television and the home-improvement boom was in its infancy, a dense whine haunted Duane Dyer’s dreams. As his sleep receded, the noise grew louder, and at last he bolted from bed and followed the roar through the house to the garage. Blinking into the dust, he found his wife, Sue, in goggles, jeans and bra, scouring a table with an electric sander.
(read on…)
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By Laura C. Alonso
Tomorrow, they’d bury their daughter . . . and still, so many questions. Why would a beautiful fourteen-year-old choose for herself such a horrible, painful death? In life, she appeared the antithesis of suicidal ideation: excellent grades, well-liked in school and community, babysitting neighbors’ children, teaching Sunday School to three and four-year-olds (her “tiny ones”), bright-eyed when speaking, frequently, of her thoughtful plans for the future, mature beyond her years.
What burdens did she carry, never missing her weekly confession?
(read on…)
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(A memoir in progress)
by W. A. Smith
Prologue
My father died as the sun rose on Easter morning, 1979. Months before, in a halting progression that reminded me of the lights in a house flickering out one by one, room by room, he had lost the ability to move under his own power or feed himself or speak a single syllable. Daddy loved to talkâwith anyone anytime about anything; he had an abiding reverence for language and its proper use, and I suppose losing forever the ability to converse with those he most loved must have been for him the worst indignity of them all.
(read on…)
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