Make Something Up

“Garbage pickup is next week, Rachel.” She sounds guarded. She says Rachel’s name as if she’s signaling to other people within earshot.

And as the pair trod along, a sepulchrious quiet jellied around them.

Somebody had ripped the radio out of his dashboard, and now Coyote was forced to sing if he wanted any music.

Somehow it seems wrong to photograph a blind person. It’s like stealing something valuable they don’t even know they own.

“Time rescues everybody.”

It sounds trite, but only because words make everything true sound trite. Because words always screw up whatever you’re trying to say.

The paper came loose, opening like a flower to reveal—something.

She worried that with a new baby the situation wouldn’t get much better. You might be able to divide a man’s love in half, but not in three ways.

Devon was ready. Only the guilty party would know whom to lash out at. Everyone looked either sheepish or bereft.

With his baby seat empty, he merged into the gridlock of troubled strangers slowly going nowhere.