He had just watched a depressing French movie about an elderly guy forced to provide medical care as best he could for his wife, who had been ravaged by a stroke.
The subject of old people and their care punched a bruise in Dan’s brain. He had one living parent: an alcoholic, dysfunctional mess of a man who seemed to be going through the stages of mummification, though still breathing....
He would never die, Dan often thought while cradling himself to sleep, because evil like that does not die.
But according to the next door neighbor, the Punch Happy Prick was now pissing his pants and confusing the mail carrier with a hooker, and this left Dan with a heavy feeling.
Superheroes usually get their powers when they’re about my age. Something to do with puberty I guess; no one ever really gets specific about it. But about thirteen, fourteen, around there, is where it happens. Like how all the original X-Men were teenagers when they started. And so I’m pretty sure that I’ll be getting mine any day now. I’m ready. I’m waiting. I’ve practiced....
by Erich William Bergmeier
She came to see me the night she shot her lover. She stood on my porch in the rain, her big wet eyes staring plainly through the window, saying nothing. The water poured down over her and left a thick trail of black mascara on each of her ivory cheeks. Her hands hung limp at her sides, her fingers pale and wrinkled.
I opened the door.
"Come in," I told her.