More on: Fiction

The priest had a real hard-on for alliteration. It drove Maggie nuts.

In most of my memories of my father from childhood, he is moving.

I was only twenty, driven by a dreamy conviction that life would unfold exactly the way I wanted. Others told me I floated through the world. This they said with a mixture of pity and scorn. I didn’t know what they meant; I’m still not sure I do.

In December of 2022, adrift (again) and staying with my parents, I found among my grandmother’s papers a sealed envelope addressed to me.

How do you remember a part of your life when it freezes up on you, when it makes a living corpse of you and you walk through your days dragging your feet, scarcely noticing anything around you.

Nadine swiveled toward the oddly familiar voice, seeking a face. All she saw at first were bare feet propped on an armrest.

Apparently, thank God, they have a tour guide, swaying upright, a column of shining, jeweled scales. The guide investigates them with faceted, ravenous eyes.

Dad passed away overnight. It was a message from my ex-husband.

We are entering in reverse order of our deaths. You don’t need to translate this.

Somewhere on this parched estate a beggar is looking for me. So says the boy.