The Mother Who Booked Me For Babysitting Without Asking Me Certified True by readers
She posted on the neighbourhood page that "the girl at number 12 does Fridays". I had never met her, and I do not do Fridays.
She posted on the neighbourhood page that "the girl at number 12 does Fridays". I had never met her, and I do not do Fridays.
Pip had sung every single morning for six years. Then he went silent, sat pressed to the bars nearest my nan's chair, and would not eat. Three days later she collapsed.
She did not ask. She did not have a key. She had, apparently, a colour she preferred, and a contractor, and my invoice.
Overnight at a security company, a caller with no ID described my hoodie, my flickering light, and told me to check the lobby camera. Someone was sitting inside our locked building.
When I was small I had a dark mark on my thigh and dreams of a trench that were not dreams. I knew the whistle meant to climb out. I only understood what I had been carrying when my grandfather laid a name in front of me.
It started as a joke to keep our spirits up in the worst week of basic training. It ended with sixty recruits doing push-ups in the sand while a drill sergeant interrogated a bath toy. I regret nothing.
On night rounds I heard talking from room 4, a room closed for renovation, no bed, no patient. A voice thanked me for coming. I checked the log: the last patient in room 4 had died there years before.
Deep off-trail in the national forest we found a cabin that should not exist -- no road, no ruin, fully furnished, a fire still warm in the stove. We took nothing. Something followed us out anyway.
Every evening at six, a man on the hill behind our small town plays the bagpipes. For two years the whole town tried to make him stop. I am the only one who ever asked him why.
A colleague copied my entire analysis, put his name on it, and presented it to the executives as his own. He did not know I had left one deliberate mistake in the version I shared with him.
Ninety dollars a day for a "non-conforming decorative item" — which was the gas company's locate marker, put there by law, before they dug up my street.
No birds. No insects. No wind. And a certainty in my legs, before my brain caught up, that I was being looked at.
Marmalade was the laziest cat alive until the night he clawed my face and howled at a spot on the wall. I nearly threw him outside. Instead I called the gas company.
I thought my camera was off during the big video call, so I did some things you do when you think nobody is watching. Ninety people were watching. In grid view.
I was desperate to find my late father's birthplace, a village name he never told anyone. A random library book slid off a shelf, fell open at my feet, and there it was, circled in faded pencil.
Grandma insisted our old farmhouse kept its own accounts -- that it was kind to some of us and cruel to others for reasons going back generations. An old letter in the wall proved her half right.
She told me the creek crossing was wrong today. It was. It nearly took me. The car park camera shows me talking to nobody for ninety seconds.
We burned the last of the wood at midnight. At four in the morning the fire was still going, the same size, and the ground around it was cold.