Eddie had always been a quiet man. Living on the outskirts of the village meant he was always met with a curious but hesitant eye. The village children were always warned to stay away from him . . .
At night you lie awake, kept up by the sounds of running feet and children’s eerie laughter . . .
Beautiful spring day in Ohio. Laundry room in the basement. Hanging clothes on the inside line from the dryer so they won’t be a wrinkled mess. My son, as usual, hungry for a snack. How does he always know when I don’t want to be interrupted in the middle of a task? . . .
February is like Tuesday: second best, like me. January at least has the distinction of being first and has that New Year’s resolution hype going for it, and Mondays are loved for being hated. But February is just dirty snow with sky to match, and Tuesday is Monday’s everlasting yawn . . .
Fast Freddy died slow. He’d been on his way out for damn near two decades. In most respects he’d died with Lucky . . .
Jariah feels remnants of bickering trailing behind her like afterbirth, spotting at times, or falling out uninterrupted at others . . .
When the doorbell rang, I almost didn’t answer it. I wasn’t expecting anyone at seven on a Tuesday night . . .
7:28 a.m. Geneva grabbed Roosevelt’s shoulder as he stood at his locker and turned him around. He rolled his eyes and went back to rummaging through his books. “We need to talk,” she said . . .