"You ate all the fat on those lamb chops!" Selena stared down at her husband stretched out on the recliner. "I can't believe you did that."
Matt smiled like a cat lapping cream. "Mmmm and it was good."
Mac pointed out the garish road sign as S.J. accelerated the noisy stolen car up the wooded two-lane highway. “That could be the perfect spot to jack a better set of wheels, S.J. We’ll hang out front and wait for the right tourist.”
Dear Margaret,
Arrived at Elmendorf on Friday. Barracks are okay, but it’s sure not as good as home. Miss you already.
Enjoying the scenery. When the weather’s clear you can see Mt. McKinley (Denali), and it’s 150 miles away. Drove around some yesterday, saw a real moose. Will send pictures.
Right after Thanksgiving, Jewel Moore, my aunt, proclaimed: “What we need is some good old-fashioned Christmas spirit, with lots of peace and quiet, no drama, no chaos, or I’ll have a hissy fit!”
It was late and the gates were long since closed. The place was strewn with red and green decorations and smelled of fresh-cut pine. The participants were assembling for the party now, most wearing the uniform of their branch of service. Lots of chin rubbing and gentle nodding and subtle saluting, as if to say, this, this is nice. A nice touch. The cool weather. The almost full moon. There had been music earlier and it hung in the air like a found memory.
“Tell me,” said Sheriff Joe Williams, “why you think your copy of Moby Dick got stolen and why you thought a missing book was important enough for you to call me.” He pointed at a volume on the nearby coffee table. “Isn’t this it, right here?”
I handed my friend Graham a print out of the portrait I’d just taken of him and he burst into tears.
He was sitting in the tapestry chair with his elbows resting on the wooden, carved lions head armrests, gazing into the near distance, exactly as I’d asked him to pose.
“Guess what I’m gonna be?”
Terry whizzed by me on his metallic blue Sting Ray bike, his auburn-haired neighbor Bobby trailing behind us. Both wore button down plaid shirts and corduroy pants. Our school did not allow denim.
Terry was referring to the yearly Halloween party where our two-story high cafeteria would turn into a haunted house full of costumed kids.
Red Gentry pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant at 5:00 a.m. on the dot, smiling to note that he was, as always, the first one there. He parked in front of the building and revved the engine of his 1950 Indian Chief Black Hawk motorcycle. The sound vibrated the windows of the café, and the glass display case on the counter.
Tingles of anticipation coursed through nine-year-old Jen’s body as she unlocked her front door the day before Halloween. Upstairs on her bed was a shiny black box, and under rustling sheets of black tissue was a Halloween costume. Jen shrieked with disappointment.
