The canopies that cover the street obscure my vision, so it’s not until he’s upon me that I spot him.
Jennifer! – he sticks out his hand – how are you? – and goes from handshake to hug.
Oh wow! How are things? as I come out of his embrace, and scan my memory for his unfamiliar face.
The kids have been a handful; his parents have been ill. Work’s been a nightmare but what’s new. There was a holiday to Europe – that cost a bomb – but what an experience. Another planned to Fiji, without the kids. Do you stay in touch with Gabe and Shan?
If I look nonplussed, it’s because I am. To my knowledge, I’ve never met a Gabe, or a Shan, or this man that stands before me.…
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Before sunrise on January 4, 1909, Frank Ulysses Grant was up and eager to start his day. Over the New Year’s weekend, Frank’s thoughts turned to whether he should remain single or get married. On this day, he felt good about his decision to marry.
While dressing, the movement of his bare feet across the icy floors reminded him how cold Salt Lake gets in the winter. But, having grown up in the Midwest, the cold didn’t bother Frank. What’s more, the flat to gently rolling farmland where he once lived could not equal the majesty of the snow-covered Wasatch Mountains and the intense blue skies that often framed them.
Now dressed, Frank went over his plans for the day. In the morning, he needed to stop by his office to pick up a couple of mining claims and take them to the courthouse.…
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I’m essentially a first-generation Mexican American or Chicano, born and raised in El Paso. I later learned that Nana Cuca and her family fled their hacienda during the Mexican revolution when rebels were looting the more affluent families in the area. She was 12 years-old and married very young. My mother was born in Juárez, Mexico in 1917 and immigrated to El Paso with her parents. Much of the knowledge of my Mexican heritage came from Nana Cuca and not from my parents. There was a reluctance on their part to talk about their early lives growing up as immigrants in Texas.
My father had a hard life working as a carpenter and construction worker for most of his life. My sisters and I lived in several rental homes with our parents; they could never afford a home of their own.…
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Clarence realized he couldn’t get up. He lay flat on his back on the hard ground. Slowly, he rolled over on his stomach trying to remember what had happened. His legs had given out. But why? That’s right, I was shot. Damn legs are worthless now.
It was dusk but the heat of the day was still emitting from the ground below his prostrate body. He looked behind him, but in his mind he knew what he would see. Yes, they’re dead. All dead. The bodies of his comrades—all members of Seal Team Six—lay strewn along the ground, motionless and silent.
Clarence surveyed his surroundings. He was next to a large shrub and a plastic green recycle bin which shielded him from view from the small field littered with his fallen comrades’ bodies and a deserted country lane just beyond. …
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and slowly I would rise and dress
fearing the chronic angers of that house
Robert Hayden
Well into adulthood I remember my mother
would walk with me in the pre-dawn
grade school days, bundled against cold,
and with each other, against my father.
We crept like criminals through the house
into sparsely lamplit streets where,
out of earshot, we could talk about him,
alone in bed unbothered in sleep, or
earlier up, off to his own refuge from us:
the work that kept us fed, and him, in habit.
We talked about his drinking years ago—
Betty Ford Clinics before I was born, and
gambling debt; desperate and angry, my mother
hid away from him his pistol, dumped
the crudely stashed bags of mini-bottles,
and went alone to beg the bookies
for time to work it out—we talked about
the time since (if she suspected he was
drinking, she kept it from me): how terrible
he was to be around; how sullen he’d become.…
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Their first train was streamlined, modern, and fast—an engineering marvel that streaked through the countryside in a blur. The French called it le train à grande vitesse, and when it ran, it was a source of pride, a symbol of innovation. But now, parked and abandoned at night, it appeared fragile, its stainless-steel skin muted by layers of snow. What was once a marvel now lay dormant, its sleek form buried beneath the weight of a winter storm.
The American couple sat inside a small, dimly lit café in the train station, lost in their own uncertainty, the air thick with the murmur of fellow travelers. They had been sipping wine for hours, their eyes glazed from the endless wait for the snow to relent.…
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Rain was steadily beating against the windshield. Rain — one factor the travelers had not counted on. This was to be a weekend getaway to help Jessie and Scott repair their troubled relationship.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” Jessie rolled her eyes at her partner.
“Of course. Besides, I know how to read a map.” Scott smiled.
“This road doesn’t look very well-traveled.”
After a few minutes without conversation, Scott said, “You may be right. Check that page again.”
Jessie reached under the seat, retrieving a worn red notebook: “Campers Guide to the Midwest.” A cardboard bookmark protruded from the book and she flipped to that page.
“Are we looking for ‘Courtney Campground’?”
“That’s the one. Read the directions.”
“Past Woodley, Missouri, on Route 24…”
“Wait a minute.…
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