Death on the Prairie
We are ranchers, I told myself. We are tough in the face of life’s harshness.
We are ranchers, I told myself. We are tough in the face of life’s harshness.
I stand stuttering in russet light, intimidated by the scornful bartender and the lack of menu. Am I just supposed to divine what’s on tap?
Many wounds are bound with blessing.
I’m not complaining though— even without stuff popping out of the screen, there were more than enough Ds.
I dislike going down hills (it’s too fast) and up them (it’s too hard), and also, biking makes my butt hurt.
It is my hope that we remember to use the breath we have in our lungs to speak up, to show mercy, and to act with love.
One would think rights bequeathed by the Omnipotent Ruler of the Universe would be impervious to puny, mortal attack.
The laughter flowed freely, as if the devastation of the last few days had dammed it up until it burst from us all at once.
I don’t believe in ghosts. I do believe that wicked work cannot be hidden.
I’ve peed behind dumpsters, on beaches, in alleys, gardens, parking lots, yards—and yet I was here, in this bathroom, I-can-pee-anywhere-ing in a space created for people who can’t.