“Hospice.”
Once the word is uttered aloud, there is a seismic shift. You will feel it.
Like a (very short) thread through the eye of a needle, swiftly in and swiftly out.
The air itself becomes thin, steely.
At the periphery of your vision, an immediate dimming. The penumbra begins to shrink. In time, it will become a tunnel. Ever diminishing. Until the remaining light is small enough to be cupped in two hands. And then it will be extinguished.
Flash fiction by Joyce Carol Oates. —The New Yorker
Similar:
The daughter is doing another thing, this time in Galway, Ireland.
A crushing backlash to Apple’s new iPad ad
I’m still teaching journalism and my usual courses, but after 21 years I’ve stepped aside ...
Remnants of a Legendary Typeface Rescued From the River Thames
A quick Sunday visit to #fortligonier with my history-loving son.
So I’m starting a thing. Wish me luck. #blender3d #medieval #york #mysteryplay #corpuschr...