Maria Scott Herndon: Fabric Of Being

  River of Time At moments like these, David tried to remember that going out on nonsense stories was part of a reporter’s job. His beat was a mix of investigative and human-interest stories, which were often strange—and this one was. A man had called in to one of the city’s all-night radio talk shows several nights in a row with tales about what was going to happen that day. In his first call, he had claimed that a large meteorite would be seen flashing over Albuquerque, New Mexico, at 5:03 am that morning. That happened, right on schedule. The next night, he called and told of a small earthquake that would occur in Peru at 11:08 am, centered on the town of Caleón. That too happened, right on schedule. David took a deep dive to figure out who this man was. At this point, the radio station contacted the newspaper, and David was put on the story. He asked the host to ask the caller, if he called again, to meet David for a drink, off the record, at a bar in the city’s lawyer dist...

When Sylvie Sang When Sylvie sang the men at the bar would stop and turn on their stools to listen. The bartender would dry his hands, move to the end of the bar, and light up a cigarette. The waitresses would huddle by the wall and hug their trays flat against their bosoms. And the drunken man who cried softly to himself in the corner by the door would lift his eyes and rub his hands together underneath an invisible spigot. "When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy." When Sylvie sang she never really heard the music or thought about the words. She was far away in a small town by a riverbank, holding onto someone she loved... someone she lost. She only heard his voice, felt his heat, and the nightclub disappeared. But the song always had to end, and when the music stopped the men at the bar would turn again and start to laugh and talk. The waitresses would rush to cover their thirsty stations, and the drunken man would close his eyes again and descend inside himsel...