Between Two Worlds Before the last bit of darkness slinks behind the edge of the earth, before the night birds go to sleep and the morning birds start to sing, before the sun creeps over the mountains to begin baking the frozen soil, before the newspaper boy flings his parcel against our garage door, before the fishermen have brought home their pungent treasure, before the street lights exhaust themselves and fade into death, before a single human sound drowns out the audible silence of Earth’s living breath, I hang between two worlds, where I slide through thick and murky dreams on the way to waking life, where I discuss Nietzsche with Jesus and Hurston w
A Good Man Pastor Dobbs was not a bad man. Every morning, before the sun rose, he crept out of bed and began his day in devotion and prayer, silently reading the Word of God and whispering thanks for every miniscule blessing in his rather quiet, ordinary life. Every afternoon, he sat at his mahogany office desk and wrote the notes for his next sermon in small, meticulous print on pristine, white sheets of paper. Every evening, he joined his wife June and his daughter Mary at the dinner table and led them in an earnest, exhaustive prayer of thanks before their meal. He always made it a point to praise June’
Control The poison Janie gave me was white, soft, and floury. She told me if I mixed it into a glass of water, I wouldn’t even be able to taste it. I’d just swallow, close my eyes, and drift off to death like she probably already has. The rest of the guys in the office aren’t as lucky to have a girl like Janie—a girl who sees these things coming, who has the second sight. She said she got it from her grandmother, who got it from her grandmother, who got it from her grandmother, and so on and so on. No one ever really believed her about it, but I did. She could predict car crashes, illnesses, death—all sorts of things, a
The Beauty Inside I've been diligently peeling some onions for the past five minutes or so, and I just noticed how ugly the skin on the back of my hands has become. Strange, how much age can surprise a person at forty-nine years old. It doesn't creep up on you like they say. I swear to God, the signs appear out of nowhere, completely at random. This is just like that morning I woke up and realized the lines around my mouth weren't sleep-marks imprinted by the pillowcase. The skin on the back of my hands looks baggy—all wrinkled and loose. I can pinch it between my forefinger and thumb, tug it upwards, and it takes an agonizing one and a half seconds for
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