His skin was torn. The scar ran jagged, his face ruined. His hands were strong, his touch gentle. Here lies a man, a life well spent.
Ann became devout the day her husband died because the night before she had held his photo and sobbed and prayed — that God would destroy him.
Cars passed as he biked halfway over the train bridge. Fireworks exploded pink and green. No one saw him put the kickstand down and leap.
“Take her out!” Jules was told. So he did. It was a nice clean shot too. But then his boss phoned to ask if his wife was having a good time.
“I can’t do this,” Martha wiped away her tears. “I won’t cry for you, anymore.” She rolled his body into the river. “Never again.”
Yu dangles the worm near her lips, tongues the air. The other kids dare her to eat it. She does. One day soon, the worms will get to eat Yu.