THE WITNESSES: Chapter Two
Monte imagined approaching the counter.
“Hello, I hear Morgan Freeman narrating my life.”
Julianne's Money
Being an escort for me was like being a scrapbooker on Etsy for most other single moms trying to pick up some extra money. The only difference was that I could make a few thousand bucks for one hour of potential discomfort versus making a few hundred for several hours of suffering through handmade clip art. I’m a pretty open-minded person, but I cannot for one second believe that there is any joy in being hunched over a desk, cutting and pasting other people’s memories together. It seems so lonely and juvenile.
THE WITNESSES: Chapter One
The first chapter of an in-progress novel.
“The voice began on a Tuesday morning while Monte Walsh was standing in his kitchen, holding an unopened package of bacon over the garbage can.”
The House of Warren
When Ali, Casey, and I were in college down in central Illinois, we lived in this great place just a block off campus. It was situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town smack dab in the middle of Greek Row, snuggled between the Beta and SAE houses—a modest, three-bedroom house with a front porch and back patio, and yard that made it ideal for barbecues and other themed or not themed parties.
The Last Offensive Man in America
Walter Briggs was arrested on a Tuesday morning for telling a joke.
OnlyHens
The concept, as described in the thirty-eight-page proposal Randy submitted to the city’s Planning Department, was “a disruptive digital entertainment property combining creator culture, competitive reality programming, food-based aspirational branding, and the democratization of female entrepreneurship.”
Familial Reflection on Suicide
I think my dad had a hard time with retirement. In the five months since stepping away he’d grown increasingly interested in me. I couldn’t tell if it was out of boredom or guilt for not having been more involved in my life up to that point. And though I never felt abandoned by him, it was nice—albeit strange—to get to spend some time with him.
Places Without an Audience
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.
The Last Trick
There was no thunder, no glowing doorway, no mysterious wind blowing through the apartment, and no choir of angels politely alerting me that physics had submitted its resignation.
The deck simply felt heavier.
The Adorable Little Antichrist
Her fury, her hurt, her fear and shame was pure focus. She dug deeper into her legs. The blood began to run down her thighs, soaking through her dress and forming a small puddle in the pew.
The Applause Machine: Part Three—NOW AVAILABLE IN THIRTY SECONDS
“We do not sell products. We sell relief from the injuries created by the culture selling the products. The customer arrives bleeding. We sell him a more attractive knife.”
The Fault in Our Party Supplies
I’m a piñata. Papier-mâché and crepe paper. My inner turmoil bred of my fate occupies the same space as fun-sized candy. Twizzlers, Nerds, Airheads, nougat and chocolate that melts and cools with the humidity in the back of a party store.
The Applause Machine: Part Two—THE MINISTRY OF CULTURAL HYGIENE
He sat across from Director Wallace at a white table. Between them was a bowl of individually wrapped mints. This offended him more than the hood. Torture should not involve mints. It suggested customer service.
A Beer, a Shot, a Mayoral Hopeful
The men rushed toward the open door. “Not so fast, fuck-os,” she said. Annie was a small woman, no more than five-foot-three with most of her weight in her disproportionate breasts, of which she often complained gave her backaches.
The Applause Machine: Part One—FAILURE IS MARKET RESEARCH
People came.
At first they came to be angry.
Then they came to be seen being angry.
Then they came because tickets became difficult to obtain.
Hell in a Handbasket
Before she was Jane Hadley, the rock ’n’ roll singer/songwriter—the Goddess of Rock, bigger than Taylor, Adele, and Beyoncé combined, she was Jane Hadley, the folk ’n’ roll singer/songwriter who never sold more than a thousand albums and a few hundred t-shirts.
Instructions for the Proper Disposal of Dangerous Literature, or How I Accidentally Fell in Love During Office Hours
Its cover was plain linen, the color of fossilized limestone. There was no author. No publication date. The first page contained only a sentence.
I have been waiting for you.
Bucking the Tiger
Pan's eyes lit up. "I have met God."
Hume paused in the dealing. Roberts's mouth turned into a grim smile. "You've met God, have you, you heathen prick?"
Pan nodded. "I have. God is a white man."
Divorce, Rain, and Other Maintenance Issues
The universe, as far as I can tell, is held together with embarrassingly small kindnesses.
The Ultimate Decision
He was tired of carrying her weight. Her financial choices and responsibilities. Her alcoholism. And he knew she was tired of his drug abuse and laziness and porn addiction. And Train played. And the guy kept talking. “Thing is, man… if it weren’t for divorce, I’d have student loans.”
Monte imagined approaching the counter.
“Hello, I hear Morgan Freeman narrating my life.”