We have been meeting like this, boats anchored in the middle of the lake each evening, for so long now that few of us, if any, can remember exactly when it began.
The Common-Law Wife of Old Trout ♦ The English Professor ♦ Frances ♦ The Hero ♦ The Coven ♦ Each Minute is a Work in Progress ♦ The "Linguistics Professor" ♦ Provisions
Though her mind flashed the brief thought of drugging him with the leftover vicodin she was saving for a special occasion—what could be more special than that, she asked herself—tying something heavy around his neck, like that insanely heavy cast iron skillet he was so fucking proud of, even though everything fried in it tasted like old trout—and pushing him over the side.
“Every story is just another battle between the angels that fell and those that pushed them.”
Frances sighed. She took the wedding dress outside and set it on fire...
Nobody really wants to hear it. Not the truth of it. How it really happened. They want to feel good about it. They want the glow. And that’s why I don’t really want to get into all that shit.
Found two hours later, smiling with a pearl clutched in her tiny fist and floating atop a clump of seaweed, her return was deemed a miracle.
But that’s the thing about sayings: they don’t always mean for you to do something or think something specific. Sometimes they are just words to keep you humble in the face of happiness.
The “talegate” was an ancient, quasi-mystical tradition, in which our forbears’ forbears believed that if enough of the right sorts of souls gathered in a circle, a particular portal would open, allowing stories to pour forth from the realm of the Gods and the Giants.
It would be easy to mistake her for a young woman, but the way she drank her whiskey spoke to decades of practice