Two tales about trying to correct the past.… more
I am bad at killing myself. When you are unsuccessful at suicide some people say you really just want attention or that it’s a cry for help. But really, sometimes you just suck at it.… more
If Nancy and I aren’t still together when I die, I’d like whatever girl I’m with to wear a black cocktail dress and one of those sexy hats Jackie Kennedy wore. Make sure Nancy gets invited.… more
They pinch and prod him. Children ask to feel his muscles. Women run their hands on his chest, feeling the shape and firmness—something none of them have ever felt in their own men. They giggle like high school girls. Beau smiles and nods and hugs and says “yes sir” more times than Anna Carol can count.… more
An idea I’ve been mulling all night catches and burns through my stomach.… more
But Myers always wanted to quit the mine that he worked full time for, to fold his workpants up, shove them into the woodstove, beat across Field’s Church Road down to the riverbank, and slowly drown himself, strangling on the water, washing the ash and dust out of his eardrums, and die in a pure way, natural, so he wouldn’t end up dirty like his father, hanging from the main beam, filthy as a day’s work. … more
I know I can get better if I want to. Everybody can get better if they want to. At the Duck Thru the black ladies are talking ‘bout the Bradley man that used to be sheriff in Halifax County. He killed himself yesterday. Melissa’s rescue squad was called out to it. They say he… more
“Danny’s problem is, he may be back in the town he came from but he doesn’t belong here anymore… more