Whenever I go to the library there she is….the librarian. No, not the one for adults--she leaves you alone and won’t say a word until needed. I’m talking about the childrens’ librarian. I enter and she waves. I see the glimmer in her eye. I know that she is dying to guide my son to the latest Sci Fi, my daughter to a great new tween book about some talking animal, and the two little ones to the superhero section.

Where Is The Goddamned Light?

Where was the goddamned light? Couldn’t they send someone for her? She hated the way she felt; dazed and hazy the way you feel when you wake up from a nap that has done more harm than good. It was dark and there were no lines only jagged ends to things, half of this and a quarter of that, she didn’t see any wholes. This place wasn’t what she had expected.

Inappropriate Endings to 5 Truly Terrible Kids' Shows

Living the Life My Mother Once Did

I remember the smell of smoke in our living room. My father sat on the velvet green couch, a Lucky burning in the ashtray beside his tumbler of scotch. He held one eye on the sports section of the paper, and the other on the nightly news. My mother often came in, though she rarely joined him. The living room, with it’s intricately beaded throw pillows, belonged to him. 

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