My aunt called, said her brother was dead and I should help pay for his funeral since he jumped from his hotel window the week after we met. You likely said something to cause it, she said.
I figured out what, but I never told my aunt or sent money.
They called me to the principal’s office. Thought I won the essay contest.
I felt good. They seemed worried.
“Was everything you wrote about your uncle true?”
Lying would save us. So I did.
“No, it wasn’t true. Just fiction.”
I hadn’t won. I stopped believing in right or wrong.
Socks.
White socks.
Shelly had known they were her husband’s white socks on sight; she’d cleaned them often enough. She recognized them immediately, dangling at eye-level just past the hotel room balcony, with Roy’s feet still inside them.
What she hadn’t recognized was the voice of the girl weeping above.
He left her a widow, alone… bereft.
Left no will… only debt.
The Repo men left only his urn.
He’d left her in the dark about his ‘little pad’ in the city. It boasted eight bedrooms, a mistress, and three children.
She left his ashes in the bin outside it.
Imagine a leather strap looped from neck to ankle. Their beauty and magnificence hobbled us like that. When they spoke about marriage we surmised their words had more to do with things we didn’t know, things we were incapable of learning, than with anything they were prohibited from telling us.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
The elephant in the living room
led us to the skeletons in the closets
so we overturned the rug
finding all the things you’d swept there
and in the backyard
beneath a bed of twisted thorns
from which a single rose had bloomed
we dug up every truth you’d buried
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Sarah donned her sunglasses and meanest look.
As she rode the bus into town, she checked her bag. Knife, gun, capsicum spray—everything was ready.
Six hours later, she headed home. Her glasses were broken, her weapons lay at the bottom of the canal, but she wore a satisfied smile.
I watched, awestruck, as my baby daughter’s chubby little fingers slid across the surface of my smartphone. Roads and landscapes shifted beneath her touch. She pinched, and the map zoomed out.
A photo of my husband drifted past, betraying his GPS position.
Wait… That’s not the location of his conference.
I remember our hotel, how you always insisted on room service, how we waited until dusk before strolling hand in hand along the deserted beach, how you wore that silly hat.
I remember rushing to your side when you collapsed, sitting by your hospital bed, being introduced to your wife.
I’m doing this for you. I have volunteered, and you’ve no idea, no clue about the wires or the cables that will be plugged into my [REDACTED]. And all for [REDACTED]. For [REDACTED] and honor and you. Most of all for you. I don’t really give a damn about [REDACTED].