Or Else

by Joe Hart

In bed, covers up to my chin, a last conscious thought floated through my head. When I woke up, I’d have to make a casserole.

Condolence food was tricky. A pie was too lighthearted to say you were sorry for someone’s loss. Bake a cake and you’d probably get thrown out of the bereaved’s home. But a casserole? That said, “Here, take comfort in meats and cheeses. I was thinking of you when I boiled the noodles and browned the hamburger. Sink into the savory goodness, and let it ease your heartache.”

life is like dementia. Anything can slip away at any time. You gotta hold on to the things that matter as long as you can.”

How ironic to not even be a bestselling author and be killed by a lunatic fan. Stephen King, eat your heart out.

I hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even tried. My mind was a hamster, my head the wheel. Round and round.

Winston Churchill had supposedly once said. If you’re going through hell, keep going.

It wasn’t just houses that could be haunted. Hearts could be too.

We wish our loved ones long lives and quick deaths. It’s what separates us from animals.

On the drive home my thoughts wheeled from one end of the spectrum to the other. There was nothing going on. I was stupid and paranoid. There was definitely something going on. I was smart and right.

Here were stacked desks, feet pointing at the sky like a mound of dead bugs.