It started as a small cough, up near the top of her chest. Then it became harder to catch her breath. Later, her airway closed almost completely, as if, in an instant, her body had decided it no longer needed oxygen.
She ran outside, hands clasping her throat, hoping someone passing by would see her and offer their assistance. But as soon as she stepped outside, her throat opened back up, wide enough to get all the air she needed to breathe, to run, to dance, to sing.
At nightfall, she embraced each star as it came out, and in turn, they guided her across the glass-smooth sea. To port, a whale surfaced. To starboard, a flying fish leapt, then crashed to the water again.
At one point in the night, she peered over at the ink below her gunwale. She drew a blanket around her and nestled herself on the deck. She fell asleep quickly, hoping when she awoke she’d know where she was.
The day dawned red, and she wanted to warn all the other sailors, but there were none around.
At the bus stop, she scuffed her foot against the groove between the curb and the sidewalk. Her mother looked up at the sandpaper noise, thought to say something, then returned to her magazine.
Years later, the girl looked down at the outside edge of the shoe she was wearing, and could not, for the life of her, figure out why it was so worn. She had long stopped taking the bus, after all.
If I could fold this miracle and carry it in my pocket, I would. Light as a dollar bill, it would carry me further—when released from its confines—than a bus token, and would never, ever wrinkle.
But even if they don’t crease, miracles don’t take to holding fast. They prefer to appear and disappear, winking like a quarter dropped in the grass at twilight.
It took an hour, but the ice at the end of the driveway finally splintered until there was nothing left but pieces. He stood, sweating, afraid to look at the sky. Behind him, the snow receded from the sidewalk’s edge, exposing forgotten ground. When he walked back toward the house, his boots crunched chunks of the ice, scattered as it fled from beneath the impact of his sledgehammer.
It was so satisfying, he thought, to take action against winter, to slam that metal hammerhead into the fossilized ice again and again. He could almost taste the cold metal on impact.
On certain days, the milk is just off a little. It sits there, curdled, with cereal floating on it like detritus after a snowstorm.
One could always dip one’s spoon into the bowl and eat, with a side of wincing, what has been provided. But there are other choices. One can also pour out that milk and choose another path. Dry cereal, perhaps. Or a trip to the store for something fresher.
“I am so drunk, I’m at the point where I can’t pick a song,” said the girl at the jukebox to the man standing next to her.
This was just minutes before her boyfriend smashed a bottle against the bar, converting it into a weapon, and came after that very same man next to her.
Shortly after, they all left the bar, but for entirely different reasons.
100 Proof 