Friday at six, the front door turned like a key in a throat. The house answered with a hollow echo—bare floors, no couch,…
The call hit like a hammer. One hour ago, my father was alive. Then Denver’s sky turned to bruised glass behind Skyline Data…
The morning sunlight sliced through the bathroom window, painting streaks of Austin gold on the steamed-up mirror. I was humming some forgettable advertising…
The sun was bleeding out over Meridian Lake—a mirror of orange and violet—when I saw her. My daughter-in-law, Cynthia, barreled down the dusty…
The champagne flute slipped from my daughter-in-law’s hand the instant her mother’s body hit my marble kitchen floor—foam pearled at the corners of…