Sometimes I ask people about their first memories. Most involve Christmas, or a vacation at Myrtle Beach, or a tracheotomy victim blowing balloons out of his neck-hole.
Fiction
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Milk Teeth
Before we start the walk home, he slaps a white envelope into my wife’s hands, legal sized, too big for the single incisor it holds. Dried flecks of blood from where it came out at the root, faint as a paint chip.
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A Delicious Silence
Evelyn, an unfortunate name for a boy, knew how to make the dogs howl. He’d been aware of this gift,…