As a recently retired English teacher, Tammie is now putting all those lessons of what makes good fiction, poetry, and essays to use in her own writing.
Every time Marcus looked at his wife Jenny, his heart broke. She just sat on their bed, staring at the wall. She had been like that since the day of the accident; it had completely broken her. Occasionally, she would get up and go to their son’s room and just sit there. She would stand at his dresser, taking clothes out—unfolding tee shirts and jeans only to refold them again. She longed for her son’s scent in his toys and bedding. Then she would return to their bedroom and continue to stare at the wall.
If walls could talk . . . well, that’s my purpose, isn’t it? To express the unexpressable. To make real the unbelievable. I am here to give closure to the old and teach lessons to the young. I’m here to give honor to many who were dishonored in life, and to help everyone rest in peace.
A Wall for Fortunato
If walls could talk, Fortunato would know why he had been chained to an alcove and sealed behind bricks in the silence and the dark. I am his wall and I heard all of Montresor’s grievances over the weeks of his preparations. He would whisper to me or call out to the empty spaces of the family catacombs or laugh maniacally in the mitre-tinged air, and I would soak in every moment of his deranged preparations.
Paco knew two things in his short life: his name was Paco and he had to get to the water. Paco had just fought his way out of the soft covering, biting and flailing to escape its hold on him. All around him, others just like him were also pushing and biting and kicking to escape their velvety prisons. But getting out was just the first step to Paco’s mission.