On the day before Thanksgiving, while on their daily stroll through a section of Washington, DC that this nauseatingly cute, white hipster couple had dubbed the “Death Zone,” Silver Lillie-Blanton turned to her boyfriend Louis Guidry and said, “Your name came up again on the internet.” Thus begins the second installment of the series, “The 12 Days of the Lillie-Blanton Coronavirus Christmas.”
As an investor looking over the prospectus of Joe Biden and Donald Trump and their 10-K filings, where would you invest your vote?
None of us children could define -- much less see -- cooties. However, we understood that other children could be “infected” with cooties if they got too close to someone with cooties. And we never could explain the origin of cooties, other than through a simple declaration: “you have cooties.”
Maybe you should not share the announcement that you are taking a road trip to Florida two days after the national emergency was declared. Florida?!?!?
Dexter’s eyes strayed from the computer monitors towards a wall on which hung 30 photos of family, friends, and events special to him. One photo of three people caught his attention. The photo was about 20 years old. Francis Hopewell, his 10-year old son Orson, and one of Orson’s friends waiting for a train at a station somewhere in England.
As I awake, the distance between my night and day feels like a demilitarized zone with hostile forces on either end defending their territory through hi-powered rifles loaded with fear and doubt.
This spring, when my wife suggested that I spent some of the pandemic in a useful exercise by writing short stories, I decided to write a short story set in the fall of 2020, based on what how a young woman would spend her $1,200 government stimulus checks. As I imagined her backstory, a family emerged. I decided to write a series of stories about this family, the Lillie-Blanton’s, set against the backdrop of a country facing several crises on the cusp of the Presidential election. The stories just emerged out of me.
His father explained to him why he had been named after Huey Newton, one of the leaders of the Black Panthers. “Huey knew who he was,” his father told him. “He was comfortable in his own skin. I want you to like who you are because of your skin.”
In her mind, Ingrid divided the tear into three co-equal parts.
Hopper reached for her hand, which she accepted. They gently squeezed hands in a way that reminded her of the same way they had squeezed hands during marriage counseling before their divorce.