6 Jun

            In my years of working at the hospital, I have developed a sort of x-ray vision, the ability to see inside the patient. Under the ugliness is often beauty, under dysfunction, capability. I catch glimpses of Tiffany before her illness smeared and distorted her. I see her in sunshine, looking up from where she is kneeling in a bed of rich earth in which she’s planted flowers. Her white blouse is soiled. She doesn’t care, but it’s the carelessness of vibrant life, not the dull apathy of disease.

from “Shade Tree Mechanic” published in Crack the Spine


This story was adapted from my novel TWO-HEADED DOG, available for $3.95 from Amazon for Kindle. 

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