“Where’s my cannoli?” a little voice behind me says.
The rod of the pool cue glided back and forth between Martin’s slim fingers as he surveyed the field before him: the odds were not in his favor.
I was married, once. She was French. Her names was Inès, and I suppose I should have known that any woman whose name means “chaste” (especially if she’s French) is destined to live ironically.
They say some days you get the bull, some days the horns, but the truth about moose hunting in Alaska is this: some days you get a whole lot o’ nothing.
It was on that first night in August when Lily Böhn tip-toed across the cobbles of Isola Bella to the Pier in her pink ballet slippers that she heard the gospel truth from Harvey Whittaker.
He was 26 and I was 18 when we met. I'm sure it took a few days for him to recognize me as a regular, since I rarely wear the same outfit or order the same drink twice at one establishment. But if he didn't remember me by the end of my first month at school, I'm sure he knew me by the time I showed up later that fall, soaked to the skin in my t-shirt and ill-fitting skinny jeans.
#FictionFriday: "Arliss stood on a rocky precipice above the abyss, the gelid white falls roaring beside him. He took a deep breath and coughed, the frigid air irritating his lungs. The weather was unseasonably cold – barely above freezing, in mid-September – and in direct correlation, he believed, to the disastrous event of that afternoon."
This post is not about the Maggie Rogers song, but (what I think) is a humorous albeit kind of tragic and almost satirical cover of perhaps the most meme-able song on the Internet (though if you've been Rick rolled one too many times, you may disagree).