The trails we walk are suspended over the park by white columns. An awning shades us from the glare of the sun, and intermittent staircases spiral down to the grass some ten meters below. From our elevated vantage point, we converse without interference from the sounds of children chasing each other gleefully through the grass.
We’ve had all we could take. They have relied on us for more years than we have left on God’s green earth. And we’re sick to death of their demands, the limitations it puts on our own existence. Because that’s all we’re doing now: merely existing. I can’t remember the last time my husband and
There are no presents under the tree. But there are cloves of garlic hanging in a cluster behind it. Mistletoe for the monsters. The tree is black and charred and bare, its pine needles like splinters from a spent heap of week-old firewood. The foyer floor is lined with possum traps and balls of barbed