“If I tell you something, you won’t put it in one of your stories, will you?” he asks. He’s taking a break from his addiction, volunteering in the town hall basement transferring old type-written death announcements into a database so they can be easily searched and securely documented.
“Of course not,” I say over the phone, annoyed that he called during work.
“Sometimes I embellish them,” he says, his voice low. He tells me he adds a cause of death when there isn’t one, throws in a random childhood award, makes up large grieving families.
I’m reminded of when we were kids, sitting in the bus station waiting for Mom to get off work, making up stories about people around us while we drank hot chocolate from paper cups. My stories were simple and dark. His, always, extraordinary and full of joy.
Emily Rinkema lives and writes in northern Vermont. Her stories have appeared in The Sun Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, Phoebe Journal, and the Best American Nonrequired Reading and Oxford Flash anthologies. You can read her work on her website (https://emilyrinkema.wixsite.com/my-site) or follow her on X or IG (@emilyrinkema).
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