No Cymbals, No Trumpets

My brother butt dials me weekly. I used to say, “Hello? Hello?” and then hang up, but now I put the phone on speaker and let him carry me around. He likes this Scottish pop band called the Hrtbrkrs. Organs and soft percussion in the background. I’ve started to get...

Always Funny

Dewey arrived at our father’s bedside three days after my sister Kay and me. We exchanged solemn greetings, all of us in yellow Tyvek prophylactic jackets the nurses had given us to guard against airborne contagions, specifically the Methicillin-resistant...

It Won't Be Long Now

“It’s broken,” he says, blushing the way some people do when they find themselves talking about delicate matters with complete strangers. She blushes back, because other people’s shame always embarrasses her. “Sorry,” he says. “Nothing’s going down.” “It’s okay,” she...

Transhumanism

What the poets have taught us about the future is that the spaceships there will all be called “Ship,” and each one will have something quite a bit like a personality but nothing like a soul. Ship will care about you in only the most prophylactic sense of that word....

Child Rearing

Sarah finally got around to eating the rest of her son, Andy—the scourge of the third grade girls and most athletic of the third grade boys (however athletic a kid can be at eight years old, although I guess some of them are nine in the third grade)—anyway, she...

Last Minute Hugo

Hugo Snell is after my wife. There are photos of them on Facebook shooting shotguns off the deck of his guest house. He drinks Wild Turkey out of iced tea bottles and shakes my hand when we meet, saying “I heard you don’t like guns,” adding “Your wife is something...

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