Connorchap

As I lay dying, I wished for some sign of approval from the Universe. Had I done right? Had this arbitrary chunk of years finally satisfied some alien criteria? My lung cancer was cutting this life short after just forty years, but that wasn't something new to me; I had once died during childbirth, after all.   My husband Sean stood by my bedside in the hospital, holding my hand tightly. It seemed like just last week that he had been young and bright-eyed, with dark hair in place of silver. Or had his hair always been silver? Was his name even Sean? Maybe that had been one of my sons, or a father at some point.   Seventy-five years ago I

When I was eight years old, every night I would want to go to the topiary garden. Not because of the garden itself, but because of what lay inside: the mansion. Normally I'd just show up, BAM, standing in between the rearing triceratops and a cresting wave of leaves. But tonight there was sort of an obstacle. Nothing more than a long and dark hallway, sure, and I immediately crouched on all fours and started to gallop down it - but my mom and brother would not follow, hesitating at the non-existent threshold. I didn't care, they never came along anyway. Lining this stone hall were statues, granite cloaked figured with hoods blackening their