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Weekly Contest #378
Wakes are the best places to eat, if you know how to behave. Nobody asks questions at a wake. People turn up at strange hours wearing strange faces, and somebody hands them a paper plate. Grief is hospitable that way. It has too much going on to check IDs. I don't eat the ham, in case you were wondering. I eat what's underneath the ham. A room full of people has a taste, and most of the time it's cold tea: sadness, tiredness, a little guilt about the casserole. Fear is different. Fear tastes like pennies. Fear is the good stuff, and a wake a...
Weekly Contest #377
The front door opened by itself at ten past three, and I was awake for it. I'd been lying there listening to the lake. You don't realize a lake makes noise until you sleep next to one. It sucks at the dock, this wet slapping sound, like somebody licking their fingers. Then the latch lifted. Click. Then the hinge, a long dry creak that went on way longer than a door should. I didn't get up. People always say they'd have gone and looked. I stayed under the quilt, which smelled like cedar and mothballs, and counted to a hundred, twice, because ...
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