Tonight, Morrison asked me about Caroline. I had just finished reading him a chapter from The Little Prince and was about to turn out the light when, out of nowhere, he said, “Hey Dad, is Mommy in Heaven?” I paused, not wanting to delve into spiritual philosophy. The last time
Indian Food, Part 1 Hello again. It’s me. I’ve decided to give this relationship another try, see where it leads. Let bygones be bygones. I admit my friends had a lot to do with this. They’re always telling me how great you are – that our first go round was
I spoke to my parents today. They’re all settled in Charleston. Said their days of shoveling snow were over. Mom made it sound like an adventure. This past Sunday they attended a new church. “There were all types of people,” mom said. “African Americans and Mexican Americans, Regular Americans (of
Monica came into work late this evening, hair hanging down over her left eye. “A new look?” I asked. “No,” she said. “Just allergies.” I left it alone. The bar was busy. Usual Monday Night Football crowd. Monica got right to it. Pouring beers. Mixing drinks. Fielding unwanted advances. Franklin,
Rafael watched as she raised hand to mouth, lips spread, teeth slowly sinking into soft flesh. Juice dripped down her chin onto her chest. She giggled. Wiped the sweet, delicious nectar from her supple skin. Licked her fingers. Rafael averted his gaze, ashamed of his desire. Oh, what he wouldn’t
She buckled Robby into the back seat of her old, beaten-up Honda. A wayward child, he was not to be trusted riding shotgun. The two drove for some time, highway markers rushing by. Robby rolled down the window and tossed one of his shoes. Clapped his hands, mad with glee.