Her lip curled like a snake on Medusa’s head—curled as if to say someone who still lived in our hometown couldn’t possibly allude to Greek mythology.
She’d had her hair done at some city salon, and she dared to insult me on my home turf at the Piggly Wiggly.
Alison Yong is the office manager of a cemetery in Boston, Massachusetts. She may be the only presenter in the history of the world to have her recorded speech at the Harvard Graduate School of Education censored for filth. She loves green tea lemonade.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?
He was a subculture within a subculture. Cowboys called him “bisonboy,” which wasn’t technically accurate, but it had a better ring to it than “buffaloboy.” He listened to country southern music and wore a 9-gallon hat.
But when he was sad, his tears made mud puddles, just like everybody else’s.
This story was based on a title suggested by @metcarfre.