A hundred million is spit when you’re dead.
Here’s a photo of a woman I met last week. A few months ago she was a beautiful and vibrant 23-year-old woman. She is still vibrant and beautiful. She has such a great smile that you almost don’t see how disfigured she is when you meet her. An angry lover poured acid in her face. […]
He counted out four more sheets. He was grim about it.
“Slip this into your pocket, don’t make it obvious. When you get home, check out the first star to the right of the nine.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” asked Donald Rabbit. “Reprogram me?”
Let’s see if you can tell where I started to make stuff up.
About all that is left after 75 years … at least memories.
They say nothing ever happened in Coronation but I heard stories about the Gent from Geneva, who in the late 1940s, arrived in Alberta. This guy, I think his name was Franz, had seen a travelogue of Western Canada. Its majestic Rocky Mountains gave Franz the idea that moving to Alberta was like living in Switzerland in the shadow of the
They say nothing happens in Coronation.
They are certainly not goose hunters.
Coronation is on the fly path of millions of geese that migrate between the Arctic and Mexico each year. There were a lot when I lived there in the 50s.
The chaos was worsening. The loons on St. Margaret’s Bay sang silly songs in the Nova Scotia fog. A phone rang and McDuff, 71 and overweight, sat bolt upright. He felt insignificant on his huge Simmons Beautyrest memory foam bed in the corner of his massive second floor suite. Nestled beside McDuff his third wife Danielle, 35,
“I’m afraid, Mr. Evenkeel, I have both good and grim news for you,” Doctor Smith said softly to his patient.
Evenkeel, who had been an eternal (albeit annoying) optimist most of his life, swallowed, then blinked in disbelief.
The kindly doctor interlaced his fingers, rechecked his medical charts and made…