how the writer celebrates... The writer sat where he always sat, at 11:58 in Phillies, perpetually staring at a blank page in his Moleskine, fountain pen in hand. The bartender placed a steaming mug of dark substance before him, proudly waiting for him to respond. "
Bill, I didn't order anything." The bartender chuckled. "I know that Tom, but it took me ages to get this just right for Saint Pattie's Day. It's on the house." The writer glanced at the large clock bearing the diner's name and smiled. It was a few seconds after midnight. Behind him, the bell on the door rang cheerily, announcing the entrance of a tired-looking man and a woman in a red dress. They sat down, not speaking to each other. &
death of a martian After he let the cattle out, he went out to his backyard, accompanied by his herding dog, Izzie, and another tiny pot of cacti, setting it down with a collection on a small mound of Arizona dirt. Sitting at the unmarked, fake grave, he replayed the events over and over in his head, trying to figure out what to do next. He had woken up that night to a sound from above, all too similar to the sound that heralded her coming twenty years ago. Still groggy from sleep, he sat up in bed, wondering if he was dreaming, when through the window he saw something shining pale green lights at him land on his front yard. She had crashed when she first came. Bolting out of bed, disregarding the fact he was only in his underwear, he sprinted as fast as a seventy-seven year old man could to where he kept her, the g
the bus and the apple Arms laden with sports bags and textbooks, I stumbled up the stairs of the bus, handed the driver my ticket without dropping the notebook under my arm, and scanned for an empty seat. There were none. Sighing, I occupied a standing spot near a pole to lean on, and began to rearrange the high school student's paraphernalia hanging off my body. As I was thinking how I'd be standing here all the way home with today's luck, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to meet the brightest green eyes I'd ever seen, surrounded by a halo of freckles and dark red waves. The young man smiled. "Y'can take m'seat if y'd like, miss," he said brightly, "I'm sure y'could use it more'n I do." I don't think I'd ever seen a happier person give up his seat. "Thanks," I muttered, and followed him back to his former seat, while he stood across from me in the