Writer, piper, whisky fiend
The Marigold Suite
The bird was dead, all right. Frozen stiff. Hanging upside down from the porch lantern like a gutted cuckoo clock. I knocked again, breath fogging the air. Was I at the right place? Shadows from the forest clawed the overhang, and the wind moaned through the floorboards. The poor thing’s eyes seemed to reanimate beneath the flickering bulb. I cinched my scarf. The brochure failed to mention such charming décor.
The Plight of Pursuit
I was born doused in darkness, and in it, I shall die if I don’t find The Light. Green, ethereal, like bioluminescent jellies pirouetting my mind, it beckons me. Imbues me with urgency, with purpose. At seven thousand feet below the Arctic, I have millions of square miles to cover before Time swaddles me in her uncompromising womb. My greatest ally and adversary, this quest is all-consuming, filling me with dread heavier than a glacier. But a life without meaning is no life at all. So, with this truth, I dive on.
When Pigs Fly
Being different is a blessing. For a human, that is. For livestock, it’s a curse. At least, that’s what Granny always says. But she ain’t right about everything. One summer, every question I asked her, e.g. if women would ever be able to vote, if we’d eventually have a woman president (I was convinced I’d be the first), she’d respond with, “when pigs fly.” She ended up eating that adynaton faster than I gobble fried green tomatoes, cuz I seen in the paper that a Lord Brabazon o’er yonder in England done took up a piglet in his airplane. Not that a highfalutin aristocrat had a bleeding heart for making Piggy’s dream come true. He done it for the same reason I showed Granny—to prove his friends wrong.