“I hate you,” says Jules.
“I hate, you, too,” I say. My co-workers don’t even blink. They’ve heard this before.
Yes, and memory loss.
I spent the bulk of the week sitting with my father. My father who had brain surgery the week before. My father who has dementia. My father who, it quickly became clear, didn’t know who I was.
Once you’ve read some flash, perhaps you’d like to get a little nerdier about it. This series has you covered.
Johnny puts another whiskey in front of me. Except for him, me, and Petey, the bar’s empty. “You hear about that up in Wilmette?” he asks.
Stupid’s Rising Up
Stupid’s rising up, I see. Melting all the intellect. I before E, except after C, but that’s not how the alphabet goes.
I remember, in that circle, one vet, whose injuries required that he lay face down on a gurney, stretching his arms up behind him as high as they would go, his hands clasped to friends on either side who lowered their arms enough to keep the chain linked.