Marc scanned the email chain from his client. “Dinner should be served at seven. The attire is intentional. Don’t be alarmed.” He chalked it up to some theme party; he had catered many theme parties over his two years in the business. Walking into people’s home as a caterer had proved immensely interesting and amusing. He gathered his pots and spoons, produce and meat, into a large wooden crate and carried it to his truck.
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Lucas woke up to the setting sun, surrounded by feathery reeds and tall grass, lying beside splinters of wood and a lonely wagon wheel. With trees off in the distance and the sun slowly escaping below the horizon, his stomach twisted and ached for a warm meal. The memory of his mother, standing on the wooden front porch, screaming his name as the wind swept over his face tingled his skin and filled him with sorrow. He forced himself to sit up, but pain quaked his body with the movement. His legs were held to the earth under the weight of the wagon wheel. He struggled and writhed, trying to move the wagon wheel, but it was too much for Lucas to budge. He blamed his withdrawal inside the home when his father was working outside for his lack of physical strength. Never once did Lucas venture outside to help chop wood or herd cattle, to milk cows or to mend the fence. His journey to this spot was a blur, but it slowly merged into a vivid picture as he cried, his voice carrying pain away from him and echoing back, reverberating the fire in his leg.
Everytime I walk the sidewalk along Rivers Drive, just where the oak tree stands at the corner where Rivers meets Payne Street, the air grows cold. I remember the powdery outline that enveloped me that night--legs draped over asphalt, arms in grass, my torso contorted over the sidewalk.
On the night I died, I had decided to meet a friend for drinks. My girlfriend, Cheryl, was in her dorm room, working on a paper that was due the next day. I had wanted to break things off, had been thinking about it for a while, but how do you say “I don’t want to be your boyfriend anymore” over the phone? You can’t. So, I wanted to wait and tell her in person. It was the only gentlemanly thing I could do. Before I met my friends for drinks, I decided to trek over to her building in West Hall and speak to her. It wasn’t pleasant, for either of us, but it was necessary, I thought. Once our conversation had ended, I desperately needed drinks, so I made my way to the restaurant. Jimmy’s Pizza Bar wasn’t far from campus--I only had to walk a few blocks, and I could easily catch a cab back to my apartment, even at that late hour. I remember, as I walked, there was a ceaseless buzz in my pocket. Within a few minutes, I had 27 messages--missed calls, text messages, Facebook assaults, Twitter hashtags. Ah, life in the time of social media. |
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March 2017
AuthorTony is actively working on several writing projects including a play, a novel, short stories and children stories. Some of these items may appear on this page, and others may appear on the store page (not active). Categories
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Awards:for "Just Like Mommy"
for "Pim & the Open Drain"
for "Pim & the Glass Jar"
for "One Drink."
for "No Prince."
for "Neither would he."
for "The Burning of Pounce"
for "Revelation, Part Two"
for "Precise Specifications"
Tony's bookshelf: favorites
This book has stuck with me since I finished reading it over three years ago. I was deeply fascinated by the story being told from the point of view of such a young child, and the way he tells the story is so viscerally devastating and b...
by Ernest Cline
From start to finish, this book had me excited! I struggled putting it down. Although many of the references went over my head (because I have yet to enjoy such nerd culture), it didn't matter. The concept and the pure exhilarating joy o...
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