A man sits at his kitchen table, swirling his spoon through a bowl of Fruit Loops, staring at the expired library card in his hand. The table is glass. He did not buy it. It came with the house. In the corner of the table is a handgun.
There once was a man who slipped. He had been walking down Smith Street, on his way to the supermarket or the library, when he encountered a particularly smooth patch of sidewalk, lost his footing and suddenly found himself on the ground. Faces around him turned and stared, taking unnecessary time out of their schedules to commit to enjoying the man’s embarrassment. The man quickly stood up, brushed off the back of his pants, and hurried away.
Take the box out of the closet. Notice that the upper left corner is broken. Adjust the box to make sure nothing falls out. Put it down on the table. Open it. Tell your brother you want to be the banker. Get upset when he says no. Tell him if you can’t be banker you at least want to have the top hat. Get upset when he says no again. Take the wheelbarrow, pretend it’s the one you wanted the whole time.
I met Oprah in the elevator of the building with the McDonalds and the post office on the Thursday after I was released from my 72-hour stay in the mental hospital. She was wearing a light brown sweater and jeans-- nice, but more casual than I would have expected. Her hair was left natural and it was very curly, glowing with the same shine it had on TV.
A tiny spider is deciding if he wants to come near my feet. He scuttles close, then back again, shuffling his black legs so they spin around him like a morbid grass skirt on a hula dancer. Maybe he is afraid I will rear up and crush him. Maybe he is testing me.
Penelope Mathers wears plaid skirts and cardigans and does not like the oxford comma. She spends exactly 4.5 hours a day in the library, marking carefully in her notebook the time she arrives and the time she leaves. Penelope Mathers believes in balance, and she does not want to throw off her daily schedule.