Her Mum thinks it’s a bereavement group. The kids think it’s a ‘special class’ that will make mummy better and smarter. Age-appropriate lies, but both have done the trick, as she’s never had to make excuses again beyond the first couple of times.
“Ready to go?” the store manager asks me. I respond almost too excitedly: “Most definitely, I am exhausted.” To say I am exhausted is an understatement. I don’t remember the last time I got a full night’s sleep.
Time is relative, so Einstein told us. I am sure he was right—I’m not really qualified to contradict one of the world’s greatest scientists—but motherhood has taught me that distance is relative, too.
At the Mind Bar, they each took a chair with a Mind Specialist, overhead lights beating down on each of them at their individual station.
His legs ached as he cleared each oversized stair, the taste of acid burning the back of his throat. Slowly he climbed the face of the foothill known locally as The Incline.
Click here to watch Samuel L. Jackson read Adam Mansbach’s STAY THE F— AT HOME!
The willowy figure is first spotted alongside the trail, a few feet ahead of her in the scraggy woodland. She counts the number of steps she will take to position herself behind him for optimal throat-cutting proximity.
It can see us from above as we try to hide among brambles, hoping it will mistake our human shapes and movements for those of boar or deer or badgers.