When the new shopkeeper arrived in the village he aroused great curiosity along with some scorn. He was deemed refined because his fingernails looked as if they had been varnished a tinted ivory. He had a horse, or as my father was quick to point out, a glorified pony, which he had brought from the Midlands, where he had previously worked.
It was an early spring late afternoon. It had been raining, and the cobblestone “streets” of Père Lachaise cemetery were still wet. The sky looked all grey and wet too, just beautiful.
For many years I had wanted to have a room of my own in a house of my own making, and when the opportunity came I went ahead and did it.
The first shipment was lost in the Atlantic in mid-October. Six hundred china dolls went to the bottom not far out from Rotterdam, with nothing either divine or human to prevent that disastrous
My old friend Charley that I’ve known for 20, 25 years stopped me in the street. He said, I’ve got something to tell you. Now, sit down. Right here.
Before the dinner, my wife told me that her boss’s daughter was obsessed by dogs. Her parents were worried about it, more than worried. In fact, they had asked whether I might be able to help.
What’s worth happening happens in deep woods. Or so my daughter tells me.
Her plotlines: In the deep woods someone is chasing, someone else is getting hacked. Hatchets are lifted, brought downdowndown. Men stutter blood onto snow. A cast of animals—some local, some outlandish—show up to feast on the bits. “The bitty bits,” she’ll say, “the tasty remainderings.” Good luck diverting her. Good luck correcting or getting a word in once she gets going. It’s gruesome, but this type of storytelling, I’ve been assured, is perfectly normal among children her age.
Sampson, Skipworth, Slonecker, Small, Smiley. Smiley, Grover T. There are still four people ahead of me on the list, I’ve got awhile to wait.
Felice lay on the shag carpet, a wet towel across her face. Beneath it, she pressed the telephone to her ear. Her husband answered on the first ring.
When school let out the two of us went to my backyard to fight. We were trying to make each other tougher. So in the grass, in the shade of the pines and junipers, Gordon and I slung off our backpacks and
David works for the city, the water division. He spends his days driving around Pine, Oregon, in a pumpkin-orange Chevy Astrovan. He’s done the math: every day, on average, he puts a hundred and fifty