Lillian Morgan

My husband died suddenly at the age of 62. All of the time we spent planning and saving for a day that now will never come. People see me at church and give words of comfort that feel like a blow to the head. Jesus gives comfort they say but I have yet to be visited by him or his angels. My neighbor Ginny bought me a parakeet for company. I realize she’s off in the head but she must have been walking down hallucination alley that day. It was summer and I took his cage outside on the deck, opened the door and watched him fly away. Jesus watches over the birds too so I’m sure it’s okay.

Now I’m not claiming that Robert was perfect but he was a good man. Worked at the plant like all the rest of the jokers in town. It’s a hard way to make a living and when the company took the union out back in ’86 that was all she wrote. We never had interest in leaving town like some did. Although the way this town’s going, leaving should probably be considered. We both grew up here and had built a decent life for ourselves and our four children. He drank of course. All of those morons down there do. I suppose it’s the work. Killing hogs all day and drinking at night to ease the pain that takes its toll after so many years. He took his fishing and hunting trips with the guys, which I never complained about. Not like he was cheating on me, unless it was with Larry Silvers.

He had a wood shop in the garage and was hoping to do more with it when he retired. Well he expired before he could retire and here I sit, chain smoking like a runaway locomotive and drinking martinis all afternoon. I put a Frank Sinatra record on and just sit, smoking my days away. I’ve got a plot waiting for me over at Cedar River Cemetery and I aim to use. I wonder what happened to Larry. Last I heard he was somewhere in Arizona working for a cleaning company and married to some Indian. He always was a little funny if you know what I mean.

Stephan Joyce

There’s something dark in this town. I’ve been the newspaper editor here for one year and I can feel it. It’s ghostly in that you sense things but rarely see them. The first day on the job, just last June, I was walking down the block to grab a coffee at The Brick House and I saw a man bicycling while wearing aviator’s goggles, a plastic fireman’s helmet and rubber snow boots. That’s the good stuff, the friendly sort of show your uncle around to meet the local eccentrics kind stuff.

There’s an undercurrent here though as if the entire town is haunted by cruelty, falsehood, jealousy and rage. When the sheriff finds a 19-year old kid with his arms hung over a barbed wire fence and a paper Burger King crown on his head like some kind of ridiculous Jesus it tells you something about a place. The drug use is growing and the people here are paying the price for it yet, they seem content to just go to Ken’s Smart Mart and have themselves a Slurpee. Best Slurpee machine in town, no doubt about it, 16 flavors and always changing but that’s not a way to live.

Mike Knudtson

I am a barber in town. Own my own shop, cut people’s hair and listen to their stories. My hobbies include crossword puzzles and ship building. We all have dreams. The disillusionment comes in 16 flavors in this town of sad darlings. There’s only so much a person can stand before the gallows becomes a viable option. I just cut hair and listen.

I just heard that one of our town’s most beloved and hated mayors passed away last night. That’s the fodder than makes the paper here. Of course we’ll count it as a minor victory if the article has his name spelled right and a recent photograph that slightly resembles his real appearance. Mayor Higgins was known for his fake mustaches, his Pabst Blue Ribbon hat collection and for impregnating a couple of married women back in the day. Supposedly there are a couple of his offspring still in town.

His family said they were shocked by his most recent death. Apparently, his past deaths came as no surprise but this one, the most recent of his many deaths, overwhelmed them. They cited the usual things like his keen wit, his work ethic and his devotion to his children and grandchildren as if any of that can account for how well his inner organs are working.

However, sorrow sows such strange patterns in our eyes that blind our judgment, creating iritic illusions that make us see things that have yet to be invented. Perhaps, upon a little honest reflection, they will come to realize that his most recent death was hardly his best one and that he wasn’t even trying. I suppose it’ll keep people thinking about something other than the murder for a while.

What do I know? I just work here.