“Little Men of the NCAA” by Sean Murphy
This is what I do. I take Mickey over to Nemo’s. It’s right across the river from the track. Still a pain in the ass though. Rillito was flooded, monsoons and all . . .
This is what I do. I take Mickey over to Nemo’s. It’s right across the river from the track. Still a pain in the ass though. Rillito was flooded, monsoons and all . . .
He stamped the snow off his boots, brushed it off the shoulders of his jacket, and hit his Stetson against his thigh, leaving small puddles where the snow hit the warm floor and melted. He looked around the bar and saw the only empty stool next to the guy that had been sitting in the row ahead of him on the bus. He took the seat . . .
And so my nine-year-old discovered the word the other day. On the subway: a young woman, thoroughly exasperated by her fellow rude subway riders . . .
I left Los Angeles and moved to Long Beach, California, because I thought it’d be less cold—I don’t mean the temperature, I mean the atmosphere, the lack of caring, the judgment, the sheer disdain for those who haven’t made it. I escaped LA, but not the hell that it is to be a homeless woman . . .
Emptiness walked in uninvited and refused to leave. When? How? I can’t recall . . .
“Mommy, can we go to McDonald’s?” Hazel asked in her piping voice. . . .
Hers wasn’t the first body to be found in the overgrown lot that once was a marsh that sucked and pulled with the tidal waters of the East River . . .
Rage. The worst kind. That’s what filled Brody Altmeyer’s entire body after he finished reading the TechCrunch article on his iPhone . . .