For Elaine, who prayed for me to keep writing
(I started writing this a couple weeks ago, before the COVID-19 news really ramped up. We're thinking about different things right now, but I thought I'd still share it)
When I saw the video of a child teaching Mr. Rogers the wave, a basic breakdancing move from the ’80s and Fred Rogers does the move with the fluidity of . . .
It was already dark. We were out on an autumn evening, maybe seven or eight o’clock. I was maybe fourteen, and my church youth group was on a scavenger hunt, a few of us packed into a car to compete against another team from the church to get the most on the list. On the list of items to find, along with things like a french fry from . . .
When he was three weeks old, my wife and I brought home a baby boy. He was and still is a foster child, a child needing a home, and we chose to give it. Driving home that evening, the little guy buckled into the newly installed car seat, I thought, “What the heck are we doing?” I’d never changed a diaper or given a baby a bottle before . . .
When Max was a little kitten, a handful of fluffy little gray fur brought into my house at just a few weeks old, I had the priviledge of naming him. I thought of my love for the children's book Where the Wild Things Are and its main character, Max. I showed my little kitten the book, and he bit the book (I can still see the teeth . . .
“Hey. We got one more delivery for you.”
“Please, not another college apartment,” I thought. “Not another college apartment.”
“It’s on Bittersweet Lane.”
The last delivery was an apartment by campus. I knocked, and I heard a shout through the door, “Pizza’s here!” A blonde with a ponytail in a sorority sweatshirt . . .
A Thomasville Story
To keep the fiction-writing muscles in shape, I'm occasionally writing little stories from my fictional town, Thomasville. Each story, hopefully, stands on its own but gives a little picture of what's happening in the town.
Mike looked across the pressed tablecloth, full wine glasses, and shiny silverware, realizing this . . .
The Thomasville Treasure
In the spring of 1994, during my final semester of college, I took a short story writing course. It sounded like a fun way to end my college experience, and it was. I still remember the stories I told then, and I regretted that I didn’t have a chance to take more fiction writing classes. 24 years later I asked myself, “Could I still do this, . . .