Fiction

Random was what life did best, Bea thought. It conferred cancer on the virtuous, drunk drivers on the unsuspecting, it matched noble wives to unfinished men, wickedness to wealth, weakness to power.

Beck didn’t believe in an afterlife, but he was starting to think that this was what people meant by ghosts. There was something there, he craned his mind toward it: something about ghosts. 

You know, Lady, I ain’t trying to start nothing, but a bunch of people’s saying you’re the best thing breathing.

Starting at 1:47 a.m., BC emergency dispatch started receiving 911 calls about an older, ruby-red Ford Taurus with no licence plate being driven erratically on Highway 16, headed east toward Prince George.

What does a person who is universally loved need saving from anyway?

Even half a decade after the news cycle washed its hands of the matter I could still recall details with ease. Though I preferred not to.

Pregnant potcakes from Belize and Cuba, foster failures from Miami-Dade, puppies found in trash bins.

It was the best first wedding we could have asked for. But it wasn’t enough! Clearly!

In Dolor, we had no concept of damage. Time was the closest to damage we knew.