I JUST WANT PALS TO JOSH AROUND WITH by Kevin Richard White
Maybe we discuss how soft our wives’ hands are, how they look in the shower, how they may or may not love us.
Maybe we discuss how soft our wives’ hands are, how they look in the shower, how they may or may not love us.
God shares my taller daughter’s name now. Which is Hope. I say it five times when she covers the inbound. Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope. Hope.
And says a warrior’s prayer as the mahogany bear carvings come alive. She understands the will of the Valkyrie as the will of the H bomb.
But before I can swallow, I must disarm her. Rob her of agency and hope. Break the faith that brought her to the enclosure.
John tracked their interactions and gauged the hierarchy. A redhead with no shirt and a flashbang sunburn ordered the youngest ones around. They worked in shifts now.
The veteran killed the karaoke machine, just yanked the plug out the back and shoved the whole unit over, which was outrageous and way better than calling the cops. For three whole seconds, I felt like a winner.
Almost breathlessly, he raved to me that he had done it: He had separated himself from nature once and for all. I pointed out that we ate from nature before a light flickered in his eyes and I cupped my hand over my mouth.
Scientists have theories about why this happens, but I’ve got one of my own: our brain wants us to remember our horrible moments most clearly.
To the conscious Cartwrights, the deer warnings were novelties. The yellow on the signs was not invented. The deer recognized it as the sun.
Just as the first wife had found the stage name pretentious and comical, the second experienced the real name as uncanny, unnatural.