Short Story
I There are crab fisherman on graffitied piers that poke into the dirtier parts of New York City’s East River. Puerto Ricans and Mexicans and Dominicans. Thin lipped with incredulous wrinkled eyes. Mothers as matriarchs, fathers given a sad sort of respect that their lives and accomplishments haven’t earned them, children with bare feet and smudged, raw mouths.
John lived in a twenty-room marbled mansion, perched neatly on a gently sloped hill, for the first thirty-six years of his life. His family only inhabited six of these rooms at any given time, and only dared use three of the sixteen bathrooms available to them, but the options were much appreciated.
How Isaac Brock poses the most important threat to Catholic education
At 3:30 in the morning late last spring, I heard the gun shots ring out from the parade. In pajamas, I joined the growing crowd of onlookers. Thirty-some-odd dumbfounded undergrads kept an even fifty-yard radius from the lone gunman in the center of the field, as if he were firing field goals and not bullets.
BERNICE KILDUFF WHITE & JOHN J. WHITE CREATIVE WRITING PRIZE: WINNER
I’d like to see the first raindrop, first snowflake to fall on the earth. They should not be forgotten. Like trying to devour old people. What useless little things. But I really shouldn’t complain. What if they’re still being recycled? Wrinkles.
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