Invisible boundaries. The gum lines of aggressive brushers. Chins, if you’re a Hapsburg. The stamped fingerprints of once white shoes. Synthetic beards on aging tires, eroding like rootless rubber hillsides.
My brother speaks to me in a hushed tone, as if the shaking echo of a louder voice might break the sight in front of us. We sit on top of the tallest hill in our plain Midwestern subdivision, surveying the damage
The River by Rick Hartwell Raymond knew he would eventually stumble on the river. He had heard the increasing crescendo of noise for about the past hour. He guessed it had been about an hour judging by the sun. His watch was still stopped at 3:17, Wednesday. It was now Friday. Of that he was […]