Fiction

The movies got it wrong; there was nothing exciting about the end of the world.

Mom faced the sky and sizzled a little longer.

She was the former-attorney, former stay-at-home mom, former manager of parental care, former person with a reason to awaken in the morning and help others.

For one brief golden moment, you were the main character of a story all your own.

She hadn’t thought through where the truth would leave them. She felt suddenly desperate not to lose her friend.

When I complained to my mother that Ganga yelled at me and treated my sister and me differently from my brother, my mother would say, “Let her be. She’s had a very unfortunate life…”

It would be difficult to write about anything else, even though the other day when I pushed the pram to the front garden, five military helicopters flew over my head . . .

“I’m not clear whose story this is . . .”

Would she remember that birds once sang to us every morning, or would this become legend, a memory from some long-ago time when magical flying creatures sang as the sun came up?

I wanted to watch a thing fall because of something I did.

Life as a single mom could be hard, but … there are always hugs.