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Tweet 1986 The arrangement that summer was as follows: Cyril St. John was allowed to assemble every day the yellow and sepia sofa cushions into the two sides and roof of a crude igloo; he could use the twenty-two-inch Pye Teletext to close in the fort’s front, and a second-hand, straight-backed cedar chair for a . . . → Read More: Revenants Tweet Big fucker named McMasters takes them into the basement. Always bad when orderlies are bored. When they feel like herders of sleeping sheep. Everything’s better when they’ve won control. In battle. Which is what they call it, how they want to see it. Days are great when early on someone wakes their temper, but . . . → Read More: The Proxy Tweet I She wears her hair in pigtails every day, even though it’s uncomfortable, even though she hates it. When he sneaks up from behind and tugs twice on the left one, it translates roughly to “I love you” in a secret language spoken soundlessly by embarrassed failing fathers everywhere. II She plays the piano . . . → Read More: Beauty Tweet 1. The Father The burial isn’t the first time the father has seen his son, but it may as well be. Nine months after delivery, he told his son’s mother he’d never wanted children. He stood with the woman on the sunlit front porch of their townhouse. “I’m sorry,” he said. “All babies look . . . → Read More: The Kind of Man Who Tweet 1. I fold my knees up to my chest and turn onto my side, sort of half fall onto the carpet before I can think about how dirty it is, how long it’s been since it was vacuumed. When this occurs to me, I upright myself, take an antiseptic towelette from the box by . . . → Read More: Of My Own Free Will |
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