Cary Williams
Stories (2)
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Shoveling Snow in Queens
“Your mother is coming over for dinner tomorrow night,” she said. I was shoveling our car out from last night’s snowstorm. In the background I heard the rumbling of the Seven train, bounding its way. I chucked piles of snow between the sidewalk and the car, forming a mini wall that my wife stood behind. I took a break, watched her blow softly into a cup, waiting for her next words like adoring crowds wait for the announcement of the new pope.
By Cary Williams2 years ago in Fiction
While She Was Gone. Content Warning.
I finished digging out the snow around the car when she called to tell me not to pick her up tomorrow. The excavation had formed a cubicle. Puffy white flakes fell heavy, and the wind shot them onto the exposed areas of my face like it was a dartboard. The only living things on the street were me and the leafless trees, whose branches were clothed in fresh white snow.
By Cary Williams2 years ago in Fiction
