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Concessions Despite two watches on his wrist he opens the garage at all hours, unable to tell if it’s night or day. It’s as if the moon fell and bounced once off the pavement before shattering into quarters and crescents, its shrapnel severing tendons of thought. Before the accident he doesn’t remember having with the car, he refused to concede even the finest point. Now he runs from the smallest conflict, doesn’t know he’s opening the door in his underwear. He is thinner, paler; soon he will be translucent, bits of moon shining through him at all hours. Addy Robinson McCulloch is a freelance writer and editor. A member of the North Carolina Writer’s Network, she lives in Wilmington, NC, with her husband, two dogs, one cat, and three boats of various sizes and in various stages of working order. When not editing college textbooks, Addy enjoys doing just about anything else. next table of contents |
