Hierdie stories het op Facebook begin, as 'n uitdaging aan skrywers om met stories van nie meer as 420 woorde nie vorendag te kom.
She trusted grins, they were shot directly from the heart. Whereas smiles, oh smiles could trick, be untrue, do you harm. Mendacious, twisted with bad intentions, like her father's, his mouth turned up at one corner like a beckoning finger, pulling his eye down into a squint.
I'm alone on deck, sharing a smoke with myself. There's no moon but the stars are a city in the sky and I can see for miles. A last puff and I flick the cigarette over the rail and watch it spin in the wake, succumb. I raise my eyes and catch a dimple at the horizon, where the sea tucks itself under the sky. It's home, half a pack away.
His chute failed to open and as he fell he struck a pigeon, pinning it against his chest as they rushed toward the ground in tandem. He felt the pigeon's heart beating against his own. He closed his eyes and imagined he had two hearts, one outside his body and one inside, beating like a train.
I had an idea that lasted more than four hours. I called my doctor. He said it should be removed. I said that's a good idea. He said: "Which? Your idea or the removal?" I said: "I have no idea." He said: "Fine, then we'll bill your insurance."
A bird lives on my head, nests in my hair, pecks at my scalp. A finch, I believe. When I go out in public I cover it with a hat, so it's away from prying eyes and cats who would climb my body to catch it. Sometimes on the bus I notice others wearing hats and if there are seeds or an errant feather on their shoulders, I nod and smile and preen.
After she fled he became his own wife, ironing in his underwear, dusting the shelves, moving the figurines to the dining room table then replacing them carefully when he'd finished waxing the cabinet. Wearing her apron he often made casseroles. Sometimes he'd sit on her closet floor and move his face through her dresses, like a dog searching in a field of high grass.
Humanity services came around today. They checked on the size of our bed, the quantity of cans in the pantry, the amount of stretch in your panties. I wasn't home at the time, it was my shift at The Mill, and you were at work, but Angie let them in. They inspected her hair and teeth, measured Buddy's doghouse. Angie said they were polite. She offered them a glass of water but after testing our faucet, they declined.
Vera "Wooly" Lamb, dressed like a man and could out-cuss, out-shoot and out-drink anyone in pants, Little Rock, 1922. Her saloon, the Gilded Rose, offered games of chance and some local talent, girls from farms and factories tired of dirty work. Wooly kept a single shot derringer tucked away on her person in a strategic spot hidden and moist, the humidity finally rendering the gun inoperative at a crucial moment.
The orchard reminds me of Christmas, the trees hung with shiny round fruit. Pawel and I walk the long rows, remark on squirrels and birds we see, the bees. He tells of his father, found face down in a creek nearby, arm broken, foot caught in a root. "What happened?" I say. "He wished for a better life." A jet flies overhead and Pawel falls to the ground, twists his leg beneath him, screams. "What happened?" I say.
