Once upon a lifetime, a little girl was born. She came into this world ignorant, never knowing just how greatly her life would affect another little girl, born eleven days later into a world that would tear her apart. But these two little girls were sisters from the beginning, and once they met, it was as though they were ignited. They vowed to stay together that day, and though they fought each other, they couldn’t break their vows. They had promised.

The epitaph read: “She wanted to be a Librarian.”

She’s giving me her copy of Sometimes a Great Notion, admitting that while it might be “the most pretentious thing” she would ever say, she wished “he had proof-read it a few more times”.

She’s squealing at the top of the stairs, in kitten heels, at the Downtown Public Library in Nashville, “Baby, we gotta go! This library is haunted!”

She’s leaving me a voicemail last week: “’-Cha, I’ma be good to you.”

It’s not that he wasn’t thrilled to be reincarnated, just that he’d never considered a sandcastle as an option prior to this. As the child dug moats around him, he wondered if this new form would be considered punishment or reward. As a crab scuttled over his parapets, he wondered if all sand was ticklish, or just him. And as the tide kept coming in closer, he wondered when the life of a sandcastle could be said to end.

I pulled out my large striped box of yarns and needles wondering if any mice had found this to be a good home over winter. My son dove in touching the balls of wool, alpaca. He helped me wind loose balls back up. We placed the needle side by side again with their partners. He choose the mixed thick brown wool. His hands moved, his mouth repeated, “In through the front door, run around the back, out through the window, off jumped jack.”

A long time ago, there was a boy who lived in a village in the mountains and didn’t think very much of himself. The village was said to have a wise man who lived in a cave atop the highest mountain, which was customary in those days. One morning, the boy set off for the wise man’s cave to see whether he would ever amount to anything. When he finally reached the top, though, he saw he was the only one there.

Once upon a time there was a 3 yr old girl who lived in a cottage. Her name was Ngôi Sao which meant star in Vietnamese. She lived with her 1 brother, Yin who was 5 years old. Later when Ngôi Sao turned 6, she had a birtday up in the mountains. Suddenly 2 men came after her on horses. She ran into a wall and a door opened up. Oh no… here comes the mummy! Who is the mummy???

Sometimes I sit while I wait for the cake to be baked and I pull out my coloring book. I am not old enough to own one without hiding it from friends but it’s a secret pleasure, hidden deeper in my drawer than an adult magazine. Once my nephew visited and spent hours in my bedroom watching tv while I spoke to his mom. What a nice lady. Next time I baked a cake, someone had colored a page of mine without my permission, no?

On the train, I couldn’t help staring at her. The shape of her face, the lilt of her nose, and even her eye color were the same. Her hair was in that ponytail that I saw every week in class. It didn’t take her long to notice me. I kept looking. I hadn’t decided if it was her.
“What are you staring at?”
“I thou-“
Her sharp nails dug into my throat.
“Don’t ever stare at strangers.”
That did it. It wasn’t her.

He found no small comfort in the existence of beautiful women, women so perfectly just right that he would never make an attempt out of fear they wouldn’t live up to his fantasies. They grounded him, reminded him of his place; but more importantly, they were like a battery, deep in his chest, powering the signal flowing through him every second, telling him that in this world, you had to settle – in love, in sex, in work, in friends, in contenment.

At 82, she made a point of declaring how when she was six, it was a different world. She was six when the Partition ripped her family, a nation, her soul apart. My grandmother–Ammi Jee as we grew up calling her–had become self-deprecating as most grandmothers tend to, the Pakistani ones no exception. Her suffering was now a badge proudly worn; sufferings were the foundational building blocks of the nation. The memory lived on; her six brothers did not.

“What’s this?” I grunted at the sight of what held my Tropicana. I marched from the kitchen and sat, sullen, on the couch.
“Mugs are for coffee, tea, hot chocol…” I started. Argh! I’d told him so many times to get some glasses, tumblers, cups. Something to hold milk, pop, juice, lemonade, beer. Something without a logo – CISS-FM, San Diego, or “Creativity is Contagious”, for God’s sakes…
He just coughed and clanked his cutlery, completely unbothered by the situation.

Because I liked you’s why you never knew.
First of grades: the greater my intrigue the more I’d freeze;
above the mortal force of attraction!
Didn’t know I studied your irises, coveted your grin, wise beyond one-hand years. How could you have the answers, be easy and kind all at once?
Wish you saw I saw.
But I’m satisfied with one tag game ‘requiring’ us to hold hands. Sweaty fingers interlocked, my fear once melted into asharedsmile…:)

“Well looky here!” he exclaimed, taking her hand and spinning her around. Her dress danced in the sunlight, gleaming like the stars in her eyes.
“I got a new dress today!” she beamed.
He picked her up and held her close. “And you look exactly the same!”
She pouted. “Daddy! I thought you’d like my new dre-”
He kissed her on the forehead. “What I mean is that you look like my little girl. Oh how I love you so!”

“Milo –
Arrived in white shoes, struck the Groucho pose against a streetlamp, ate fries with pineapple mayo while a homeless man sunbathed on the sidewalk, hailed a cab with a concert program, rocked a Windsor knot, ran from my legs, botched a keg stand, found my sibling-by-choice, and wrote this postcard because I now carry stamps. We’ll never remember.
p.s. Horn-rimmed glasses:hot girls =s spectacular”

Milo refolded and banished the card deep back into the drawer.

I woke up last night to a west wind howling down the lake. It shook trees on the frontage and spread the small amount of sand that still exists along the shoreline across our horribly kept brownish lawn. That wind played the house like a violin, vibrating hundred year old joists and window panes up and down a diatonic scale. I waited for each gust with such anticipation – not knowing if I wanted it to blow harder and harder or stop altogether…

Our baby’s first day at the sitter’s, and our conversation goes like this:

Me: “Did she have a good day?”
Husband: “Fine.”
“Did she eat?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she eat?”
“Uhm, s’meth’n’ chicken I think.”
“Did she poop?”
“Uhm, I don’t know.”
“Did she have any snacks?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“Did she behave?”
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“Did she nap?”
“Milk. I think she had milk for a snack.”
“Afternoon snack?”
“Chicken.”
“She had chicken as an afternoon snack?”
“Two hours.”

We climbed into a golden boat, the tall sailor and me. Together we sailed on the moon wake, far across the sea. We sailed right up to the sickle moon, so big in the sky. Then we sailed on into the night, the tall sailor and I. We floated on a river of stardust, leaving no trail behind. We sailed past the world of reality, into the realm of imagin….
BRAAAANG! My alarm clock went off, and I sighed. Goodbye, sweet dream.

Good lunch rush; busy; over. Skinny white boy nervous; knows; rushes counter.
“Open it up, old man!”
Barrel looks through paper bag toward you, sole since June. Never caught him. Hands in the air. Not going to; not this time. Glance up at her picture, Sunday-crowned, still on cigarette rack. Glance at ring, still on finger. Step forward.
“Go ahead an sho–”

Eliot sat by the pond down the hill from his parents’ house talking to Wizard #5. Eliot had to make up people to talk to because he had things he couldn’t tell anyone else. Wizard #5 was his fifth imaginary friend. The last four had died. Eliot hadn’t wanted them to die, but what could he do?

Wizard #5 turned to the boy and said, “I was just talking to someone about what you said yester-”

So much for wizard #5.

Newark, New Jersey 4am.
The 1st floor of George Washington Carver Hospital is madness. The ER is packed and outstretched hands pull on your scrubs as you try to push your supplies cart through. I knew this job was going to take effort on my part, but I had no idea it was this crazy. Seeing patients crying and screaming for doctors and nurses reminded me why I’m not going into medicine. I’m just here for a summer job..now……

Hundreds in the crab colony watch in awe as Gary wearily staggers to the base of the Stone of Trials. His eight legs each finding their place with beleaguered ardour, he slowly ascends. Once at the top, he pauses taking a deep breath. Summoning what’s left of his strength Gary hoists his remaining claw into the air in triumph. The clatter of pinchers snapping in approval begins at once. Gary has fought and defeated his rivals, Gary has become King of Cra.

I have no rain coat out here.

Thunder shakes; fatty tissue vibrates under my skin, making me scratch all-over itches. The mountains fall on themselves, devouring these foothills.

As a little girl, my dad taught me to count the seconds between thunder and lightening to see if it’s close. If there’s danger. The bolts cut jagged angles in the gray, shifting sky. I think it’s close. I count after I hear the rumble. One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousa—

Dear Alex Trebek,

Oh, to be you! To dream in questions. To assign monetary values to everyday thoughts.

I imagine you ponder punctuation as other men consider politics. Isn’t it funny how “Jeopardy!” ends in an exclamation point… Have you considered the interrobang? Though I suppose such unruly punctuation would clash with your wardrobe. I, too, lie awake wondering how you decipher the handwritten answers of Final Jeopardy!? (Ha! Unintentional interrobang.) My God, how illegible they can be. You astound me, Treb.

The Tara Street train station is the third largest in Dublin, but the ticket office is a tiny cube with a wide doorway and scrambled-egg-yellow paint. I’m going to Howth, a tiny seaside town where I plan to meet a boy who will not arrive. I have been here long enough to ask for a “return,” not “round trip” ticket, but the ticket-seller is confused at “Howth.” I am still an American. It’s not “Howth,” it’s “Hote.”

They are always throwing babies in the inflatable pool in the backyard. To soak and splash in four inches of probably peed-in water. Ridiculously, water wings make an appearance. They love how cute the babies are in the water. How curly hair gets curlier. How pink skin gets pinker. How damp, chubby arms reach for popsicles, hugs.

Or so say the photos in the red vinyl album. This old baby can’t remember back that far. Still a smile floats up.

Dad called at 7:30. I lay in bed panicking, and almost didn’t go.

We drove to the nursing home and went through Grama’s things. Old clothes, Ziplocs full of lipstick, tissues long forgotten in every pocket. Dad found $6 hidden in a drawer and gave it to me.

“Your inheritance,” he said.

Grama always gave me cash when I visited, as if she were buying my presence.

You’ve still got it, I thought, as we boxed up her life.

It was cloudy outside however, Ralph and Frank were convinced this might be the happiest day of their lives. Acquiring packing supplies and a crowbar proved easier than they imagined.

“I see only one option,” Ralph said.

“New Zealand,” replied Frank.

Ralph looked at Frank and then the box sitting between them.

“The principal will never think to look there. We will be heroes, Frank. ” Ralph exclaimed.

The boys picked up the box of math tests and headed for the post office.

There lived a dinosaur named Raymontersollesrex. He heard of a comet coming to make dinosaurs extinct, so he hid in a cave until the comet had left. After thousands of years he came out, but everything had shrunk to one sixth of his size. When going back to the cave, he found an egg and watched the baby come out. She resembled Raymontersollesrex, but only a sixth of his size, so he gave her one sixth of his name and called her Ray.

Winston, an old mechanic, used to scale Sequoia trees on his days off. But never at night. Until a customer one day had told him about a sighting of a light coming from the forest canopy.

The next night Winston had to explore.

After a tricky climb, Winston finally summited and turned off his headtorch.

“Shhhh..he’s rig–” Mr. Possum quickly covered Mr. Newt’s mouth.

“EJECT!!”

An escape hatch of branches released down and swung a thousand party animals to safety.

“Hey,” he said, “check this out.”

“What?” she asked, not looking up from her laptop.

He shook the newspaper at her. “You gotta read this.”

“Hang on, I’m in the middle of something.”

“No, you gotta read it now.”

“Wha-aat?” She peeled her gaze away from the screen. “Why are you always interrupting me?”

“Look, it says the world is going to end at 9:43 this morning!”

“That’s ridiculous. What time is it now?”

“It’s nine forty-thr