Stories Worth Telling. Rollick.

This became routine for my summer mornings, mornings succeeding evenings of drinking where you all but convince yourself the following day it isn’t part of a bigger problem, how alcoholism is an antiquated term for something you clearly don’t have.

He’s the sweet taste of strawberries on fluffy shortcake, with eyes that reflect an enormous 

Heart that’s displayed prominently on his sleeve.

Angie was the type of car people kept in antique store backyards ‘cause they thought she looked cool, “There ain’t nothing like a Classic Chevy.” My dad had a thing for cars so he bought her for a grand and put the rest of his cash into fixing her up. He did it until he died, lung cancer, and then Angelica was mine.

“I’m thankful I’m not a horse,” Marla says, as she reaches for the saltine sleeve inside her tote bag.

Marla says weird shit like this all the time. She’s the kind of person who thinks everything she says makes complete sense, even though she begins stories in the middle. 

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Maya puts away our coffee-cups – I’ll rinse them after our walk, along with the produce for lunch – and stands behind me, massaging my neck at the right spot. How did she know?

I saw everyone, having fallen short, on the ground. At last I joined Everyone, their force being much, and greeted the ground too. It’s comfortable there. Here.

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​​I am in denial. Two pink lines. 

I blink- squinting in the yellow bathroom light. I am expecting them to fade, to be a shadow, but they wink back at me, glowing- as if to say “I am here now.”

It was the second of June, two-thousand-and-two. Cal Jacobs sat in an uncomfortable rolling chair made of plastic and polyester, staring out the tenth floor window of his high-rise office building, wishing he was anywhere other than right there.




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