It was a high whistling sound, somehow human, somehow tragic. You could hear the pain in the voice, a dreadful melancholy punctured through with agony. It was the sound of someone wailing for something long since lost, but never forgotten. Unable to be forgotten.
When was the last time you locked your car?
It’s funny that I didn’t notice it sooner.
Dear Mr. Stephen King…
It was almost a perfect circle and bigger than I’d first thought — just a bit bigger than a softball.
When I was a child, my mother used to talk a lot about Those People.
Red. This dress was red.
Except it wasn’t.
Throughout most of my life, I haven’t given much thought to the concept of vigilante justice. To me, that stuff belonged in movies and cheap TV shows, not down at the park on Fourth and Western.
Life is not a game.
I don’t bother with my family much.